


Love in the Time of Covid-19

by acciopasta



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: COVID-19, Coronavirus, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining, Romance, SnowBaz, and they were ROOMMATES, love lockdown, omg they were roommates, self indulgent, social distancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23887456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acciopasta/pseuds/acciopasta
Summary: I HAVE NOT UPDATED THIS IN A LONG TIME! Very very sorry. Things got very busy with my classes and family. Hoping to start working on this again in early 2021. SORRY AGAIN I FEEL TERRIBLE. AU where Simon and Baz are flatmates and go to Watford University during the coronavirus pandemic. Topical.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 26
Kudos: 79





	1. A Bored and Socially Distant Simon

**Simon**

One day into lockdown, and I’m bored out of my mind. But I’m saving my uni work, which is already starting to pile up, for a particularly unfathomable bout of boredom.

Penelope and Agatha left their flat yesterday for their parents’ homes and haven’t had time for a FaceTime yet. I’m not expecting anything much from Agatha; we’ve grown apart over the past year, but I’m hoping for a chat with Penny soon. As soon as she got home, her dad recruited her to help with his research on how the virus is impacting the magickal communities, and it seems like they’ve been working nonstop since she got there. She had said that I was welcome to go with her; I know her parents wouldn’t have liked that much though, so I said I’d be fine staying behind.

I have the apartment to myself for the time being, but Baz is sure to walk through our door any second, so I’ve got to make the most of it. Grinning, I open the windows in the living room as wide as they’ll go and feel the breeze of the cool, sunny day against my face and fall back on the couch in my slouchy grey sweats.

Without Baz’s judgmental stare, it’s the perfect time to binge _Survivor_. Baz thinks he’s too good for reality TV; he solely watches documentaries, crime dramas, and artsy “films.” And sports. The only times we set aside our mutual loathing for each other to watch TV together are during football matches. We both rooted for Liverpool.

Three hours into my _Survivor_ marathon, I could practically hear Baz making snide, pretentious comments. _“How are you_ still _watching this, Snow?”_ he would snarl, glowering at the screen. _“I am incapable of even believing this has different episodes.”_

 _“Shush,”_ I chide in my imagined response. _“You just don’t get it. It’s about the_ human condition _.”_ Baz would probably just scoff in reply and wander off to think of a way to make my life miserable beyond just mocking my taste in entertainment.

I open a new package of chocolate caramel Digestives and turn the volume up for the elimination. Catching up on _Survivor_ was the best decision I’ve made in a while. But watching it made me miss Penelope. She usually indulged my request and joined me in staring at a screen for hours, though she would say after each episode, _"This will be the last one. I have some work I need to finish."_ We’d watch four more episodes before she was able to actually sit up straight and one more before we actually turned it off.

I check my phone, hoping for something, anything. Nothing. I even check out the windows to make sure somebody didn’t cast **a little birdie told me** to get in touch. I check my phone again.

*

It’s already dark outside; that’s the first thing I notice when I wake up from my reality television-induced coma. I sit upright on the couch, stretching my back and notice the dimmed screen in front of me. _“Are you still watching Survivor?”_ Netflix taunted.

I realize my phone is ringing and swipe across the screen without checking the ID. “Hello?” I ask groggily, holding it up to my ear.

“Simon, what are you doing?” Penelope asks at a volume that makes me pull the phone away from my ear. “This is a _video call_.” I look at my phone and see Penny staring at me, obviously trying to make sure I’m all right in the head. I watch her take in my drowsy eyes, messy hair, the pattern of the throw pillow imprinted on my cheek – I sheepishly try to wipe around my mouth to get rid of any remaining dribble – and she smiles and decides to move on.

“Anyway,” she says, adjusting on her bed. I know she’s happy to see me, even though she just left yesterday. I’m glad to see her too. “How are you feeling? Are your spells still coming out the same? How about Baz?” Her smile falters at as she says his name.

“I’m fine,” I say, leaning back and holding my phone up. “And my spells are coming out, er, no different than usual.” I typically try to avoid doing magic as much as possible. Even on a good day, my **tidy up** is likely to just erase whatever I’m trying to clean from existence. “And Baz isn’t even here.” I check the time. 11:54. “He’s probably isolating with his family.”

Penny frowns. “He’s not with his family. My dad just spoke with them about his research. They mentioned that he was at the flat.” I can see the gears in her head turning, the way they do when she’s suspicious of something, or someone, but then she just shrugs and reaches out of view before bringing a mug of hot tea to her lips.

“How’s the research going?” I ask her, knowing that once she starts talking about her father’s studies, she won’t stop for a while. I don’t mind though, once she begins chattering on. It’s nice.

“So, magicians who contract the virus, along with the normal symptoms of coughing and fever and lack of taste, are really struggling with their spells. Nothing’s working right,” she explained. “We’re not sure if it’s because of the fatigue or the shortness of breath or something different altogether.”

“Yeah, really interesting,” I say, feigning boredom and stifling a pretend yawn. Penny gives a look of faux outrage, before laughing.

“With your trouble with spells and lack of taste in general, maybe you’ve already fucking had it,” she retorts.

In pure righteous indignation, I hang up the call. She calls back immediately, and I answer. “Where do you think Baz is?” I ask, changing the subject entirely.

“I don’t know Simon. I’d be lying if I said my first thought wasn’t that he was off plotting some evil vampire scheme to finally off you or help the Humdrum, God forbid, but I’m really hoping that’s not the case. Plus, don’t you think his parents would be in on it if he was?”

“I thought you didn’t believe he’s a vampire,” I say quieter than I intend, and she frowns at me.

“Of course I believe he’s a vampire,” Penny says matter-of-factly. “Everything about him screams vampire.”

I agree and tell her so. Everything about him does scream vampire. Especially when he flat out told me.

*

It was back in December just before Christmas. I can’t remember why Baz decided to stay so long before heading back to his parents’. It was one of the rare nights we were actually getting along. Liverpool was playing in the FIFA Club World Cup, and it was the last game of the competition. It wasn’t the biggest game for Liverpool, but we always want to win. There was a large, half-eaten pizza they shared on the coffee table; though, now that I think of it, I don’t remember seeing Baz eat any of it – I guess it wasn’t much of a _shared_ pizza.

We _did_ share the alcohol though, without a doubt. Nothing makes you temporarily forget about your mutual unadulterated hatred like drinking and watching sports. When the game ended, and we won, we both were on our feet cheering, my hand on his shoulder and his on mine. Something that never would have happened sober, unless we just missed the other’s neck. I felt something stir in the space beneath my chest. Surprise, I guess.

It was a surprisingly comfortable moment until Baz quickly removed his hand and stepped to the side out of reach. He cleared his throat. _“Well–”_ he started before the alcohol took over me.

 _“For fuck's sake,”_ I said, leaning towards him and grabbing his sleeve, pulling him back to where he was standing moments before. I sat back down on the couch and begin pouring another rum and coke. Baz began to sit down slowly before falling the rest of the way onto the couch, clearly tipsy and trying not to look it. I reached over and handed him the drink; he looked suspicious, but he took it. _“This is the first time we haven’t been at each other’s throats, and it’s nice. Let’s just have this once night.”_

Baz shifted in his seat. He took a sip of the drink as Simon made himself one. _“Er, yeah, okay,”_ he said, finally.

And then we talked. Not about anything incredibly personal, but more personal than we'd been before. About his family. About the Mage - nothing that he or his family could use against him, of course. Just my experience. My cheeks were flushed – Baz’s weren’t – and we both had to pause frequently for bathroom breaks. We slurred and sloshed, and I had to focus with slight difficulty to take in his long nose and grey eyes, which didn’t look so cold anymore. Slowly, after a couple of hours, the conversation dwindled, and we sat in silence. We were starting to sober up, I think, but I had one more thing to discuss with him before I wasn’t tipsy enough to go through with it.

 _“I know what you are,”_ I said quietly, looking at him. He tensed, sitting up straight.

 _“Then say it,”_ he dared me. _“Out loud. Say it,”_ He kept his eyes forward.

 _“Vampire.”_ Even quieter.

_“Are you afraid?”_

_“No.”_

Then Baz stood up, sitting his drink on the coffee table; he swayed a bit as he straightened his Liverpool FC shirt. He looked at me then, and I saw that the coldness in his eyes had returned. _“Maybe you should be.”_ With that, Baz turned away and crossed to his bedroom, not looking back.

And it’s not like that was a big breakthrough moment for the two of us; we essentially went back to our antagonistic selves the next morning. Or, I should say, late afternoon. I’m still too nervous to try the hangover cure spell, **hair of the dog** , on myself, just in case I actually turn into a dog.

*

But I’ve never told anybody what he confirmed that night; I don’t know why. It’s not like people don’t already believe it. Penny believes it, and she never believes anything that doesn’t have mountains of evidence backing it up.

“Okay, so do you want to Netflix Party?” she asks, breaking out of my own thoughts. “I thought we could watch Bake Off.”

“That sounds great,” I smile and grab my laptop, though I’m still thinking about what Baz could be up to. I know he hates me. And I know he’s not one of the good guys. But I couldn’t help but hope that there was good inside of him.

“Great,” Penny says, sending me the link. “I thought it would be the perfect thing to distract us from, you know.” She gestures vaguely referring to the state of the world.


	2. The Prodigal Flatmate Returns

**Simon**

_Time passes. Even when it seems impossible._

A week into the stay-at-home order, and I'm already low on food. I know, when I last went out, I bought enough for two weeks, but I guess I've been snacking more than usual; what else is there to do when I'm stuck at home all the time? The cupboards are far from empty, but there's no way I'd ever touch Baz's food - I'm surprised it's not all just hospital bags filled with blood. As I reach for the top shelf to get my emergency package of Jammie Dodgers, I glance at Penny's face on my phone screen.

"He _has_ to be in the country, Simon." I can tell from her expression and her voice that she's getting tired of my constant Baz-related worries, but nobody seems to have heard from him in over a week. We don't know where he is or what he's planning. "Nobody's going anywhere right now. Honestly, don't you keep up with the news?"

I don't. "Of course I do, Penny. But," I plead, moving back to the couch with my biscuits, "what if he left before the travel shut down? What if he's in America right now planning a full-scale, magickal terrorist attack?" I know I sound ridiculous, but I'm worried about him. Or rather, I'm worried about what he's doing.

She rolls her eyes dramatically. "He's a second-year uni student. Don't you think he'd at least try a smaller, domestic terrorist attack first? Baby's first assassination or something?" She's taunting me, but I don't let up.

"What about last semester when he tried to off me by pushing down the stairs in Radgate Hall a couple months ago after class? Or when he helped the Norse sea serpent get into the Thames last year?"

Penelope and I had been by Southwark Bridge when it attacked. She had dragged me to the Tate Modern earlier that day to see an exhibition by an abstract expressionist she thought had been a magician. We were walking along the river when it rose out of the water. By then, I was pretty accustomed to having my life threatened - Baz or no Baz - and I was able to summon the Sword of Mages almost immediately. Penelope was shouting protection spells when the serpent lunged at me. Somehow, I ended up on its back. Or maybe its neck? It's difficult to tell on a giant water snake. It was thrashing around, and I knew that with a couple deft swings of the sword, I could have killed it.

I had just lifted the sword above my head when Baz showed up. _"Stop!"_ he shouted. His outburst was met with surprise from both myself and the monster, who then turned so quickly, I lost my grip around its horns. And that's how I fell in the Thames. For the next two months, I was convinced I was going to grow gills or sprout horns myself. Who knows how polluted that water is?

Apparently, Baz had managed to send the sea serpent away with nothing more than a _" **carry on** "_ and _**"** s **tay the course**."_

Penelope tried to cast **nothing to see here** on the crowd that had gathered around us, but there were just too many people. Fortunately, though, because of the close proximity to the Tate, all the Normals thought it was just a performance art piece. Penny, Baz, and I were dodging local news stations for weeks.

"I would hardly call a couple of lousy attempts like that enough of a trial run for the new world tragedy." Penny sits the phone down to take a bite of her mid-afternoon cereal, and I'm left staring at her ceiling fan. "And I don't think he was _trying_ to kill anyone, at least that time. I think he's less interested in slaughtering the large population and more focused on being a dick to you specifically."

"I just want to know what's he's up to. It's like he _gets off_ on being mysterious!"

"Simon," Penny groans. "Let it go. You'll have the flat to yourself for a bit. Whenever he gets back-"

"If he ever comes back," I mutter.

" _When_ he comes back, you'll want him gone again, no doubt." She makes a good point. I should enjoy it while I can. "Plus," she adds, "there's no way he's dropping out of school. He's way too much of a nerd for that."

"Know-it-all's more like it." One look at Penelope's face - she looked like I had personally offended her - and I backtrack immediately. "Not that, er, _you're_ a know-it-all, you know, just because you enjoy school so much." Her eyebrows raise. "In fact, I think that you are both, er, admirable in your... scholarly efforts?"

She laughs, and I grin, breathing a sigh of relief.

"So, you really don't think he's up to something?" I ask, with a mouthful of biscuit. Penny's sighs, but I'm not ready to move on yet.

"Of course I do. You _know_ I do. I definitely think he's hiding something nefarious, but since we haven't the faintest idea of where he is, it's no use worrying ourselves over it. At least not yet."

"Hiding something," I repeat to myself. "I have an idea."

*

"This is a really bad idea, snooping through a vampire's stuff," Penny says on the phone, once I'm in the hallway. My phone's in one hand, and my other hand holding my phone free to conjure my sword if needed. I don't bother with my wand - it wouldn't be particularly useful anyway, knowing me. I feel a surge of guilt rush through me before I remember that I didn't tell Penny, or anybody else, about Baz being a vampire for certain. She's just Penelope. "Crowley, Simon, if he finds out you've snooped through this room, he'll kill you. _Actually_."

"Well, I'll just never leave the flat again," I say, knowing that she's right. "He can't kill me in here."

He can't. It's the Magician's Law; our landlord, Roger, spelled the Roommate's Anathema in all his flats. If Baz or I do anything to cause purposeful physical harm to the other inside these walls, we'll be evicted from the flat, as well as expelled from the university for breaking the legally binding curse. _"Had an issue a few years ago, and it just took ages to get the blood of the carpets, even with **out, out, damned** spot," _Roger had said, shrugging.

"I don't think the Anathema can stop him from dragging out of the flat and down the stairs to kill then," Penny says, rolling her eyes. "As long as you don't get hurt until then. I just don't think you should be doing thi-"

I hang up the call. The phone starts ringing immediately, but I ignore it, dropping it on the floor in the hall. Tentatively, I take a few steps toward the door. Maybe Penelope's right, and this is a terrible idea. I reach for the door, hesitating right above the handle. I should just stop, turn around, and watch TV. I've heard good things about _Ozark_. Who knows what kind of traps he might have set before leaving? Making my decision, I summon the Sword of Mages, just in case, and grab the door handle. I turn and push; the door swings open. Too easy. I wait, but nothing happens. I take a few apprehensive steps and pause again. Nothing.

I've never been in Baz's room before. I have no idea, I realize, what even to expect. The first thing that strikes me is how freakishly clean it is. 

Everything is in its place, and there's nothing on the floor. It's not like my room is _dirty_ , but it's definitely not entirely tidy. I just have a tendency to drop my clothes on the floor or leave things laying around. There is nothing untidy about this room. And the _smell_. It's a clean, woodsy, citrus scent. Does Baz always smell like this, or is it just his room? I'll need to start standing closer to him when he gets back, even if at my own risk, because it smells _nice_.

I take it all in - the double bed, the two nightstands on either side, the writing desk with an actual candelabra (the pretentious fuck), the trunk sitting at the foot of his bed with a violin case laying on top. Baz plays the violin? All the furniture is made of the same dark wood; mahogany? Walnut? Oak? I don't know anything about wood. All my furniture comes from Ikea. This looks like it's been in his family for generations.

There's an old sport magazine with Marco Reus on the cover, his shirt twisted and riding up, showing a bit of stomach, his face red, and blonde hair darkened with sweat during a game. I didn't know Baz kept up with the German football teams.

One wall is entirely bookshelf; there must be hundreds of books. Cautiously, I begin pulling books out and putting them back. Maybe one of them will trigger a secret passage to his secret vampire lair. _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , _Sense and Sensibility_ , _American Gods_. I look for relevant titles: _Lolita_ by Vladimir Nabokov - Vladimir is a vampire-y name; _Beowulf_ is about a monster, right?; _Dracula_? Too obvious. Nothing works.

I turn back around, glancing at the trunk. Seems like a perfect place to hide something. Moving the violin to the bed, I test the lid of the trunk. It opens easily, creaking a little. So, it's not locked. And inside is a football and other various sports gear. His desk is cleared off and the closet is just full of clothes. This is useless - he's not hiding anything in here. Why would he, if he was just going to leave the door unlocked?

I sit on his bed and try to imagine Baz in here, just... existing. He spends most of his time in his room. Reading books, I suppose. Playing the violin, though I've never heard him - maybe he spells the room soundproof. Writing papers at his desk. 

And then, I close the door quietly behind me, not that there's anybody around to hear. It's dark outside now, and it's too cloudy to see any stars; I think it's meant to rain tonight. Leaving the curtains open, I settle onto the couch with a very large, very full, cold glass of water - and promptly spill it down my front.

"Shit, fuck!" I shout at myself, pulling my shirt off and drying my chest with the back of it. This is my punishment for trying to stay hydrated. Never again.

I turn on Netflix and just start scrolling, and eventually, I drag the comforter off my bed to the couch. Deciding on _Arrested Development_ , I lie down and watch Michael Bluth try to keep his dysfunctional family together and Michael Cera attempt to make out with his cousin. I make a mental note to pop out to the shops tomorrow for some food-related essentials.

*

Monday, March 30, 2020 (around 2:45 am)

It must be the middle of the night when I wake up, though I'm not completely sure. It's almost completely black, except for the lights outside my window. I'm still half-asleep when I see those lights shining on a figure standing by the door. The tall silhouette looks familiar. Baz. He's back.

I nearly fall off the couch as I race to my feet. I stand up too fast, feeling dizzy. I feel a little self-conscious, realizing I'm just in my sweatpants, but there isn't time to dwell; I need to know where he's been. "I-" I begin, trailing off. "You're-"

"Back?" he finishes. His voice sounds rough and tired. "Yeah." It's hard to tell in the dark, but he looks tired too - he's slouching more than usual, his hair isn't swept back in the way it usually is, and I can almost make out the bags under his eyes. He turns toward his room, and I stumble towards him, searching for an explanation. Any explanation. "Don't," he bites. "Just... stay away from me, Snow. I'll stay in my room for the next couple of weeks. Quarantining."


	3. Breakfast with the Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's finals week, and i'm so tired!!! hope this makes any sense at all!!!!! xx

**Baz**

(around 2:45 am)

Despite its cliché, dark and stormy may be the best way to describe tonight; the trees bend beneath the wind, and at it seems that at any second the clouds will give in and break, and buckets of rain will just start pouring down on me. Nobody else is out and about, which is odd for this time of night in a college town. I guess even students are taking this virus seriously. I slip in the door of my building and move toward the elevator; I’m far too exhausted to take the stairs like – I haven’t functioned on this little sleep in ages, though ‘function’ might be too grand a word for what I’m doing. Making my way into the elevator, I hear sounds coming from one of the rooms down the hall. A bed creaking and a moan. I hit the _door close_ button a few times, knowing that, if I could, I’d be blushing. So that’s how people have been spending their time during this lockdown.

Outside the door to the flat, I fumble with the keys a bit; with the lack of sleep, my hand-eye coordination isn’t where it needs to be for optimum silence. I’ll probably need to quarantine myself for a while – who knows if I’ve caught the coronavirus in all the contact I’ve had. How long would I have to stay away from people? I don’t think it will be too much of a hassle; on a good day, the only times I come into direct contact is when someone bumps into me, but it might be difficult to stay six feet away from Snow at all times when we live in this ridiculously small flat.

He wouldn’t have to know I’m back. If I’m quiet enough, I can be in my bedroom in seconds and stay there for a few days before dealing with him. I can work out the story I’m going to tell. Somehow, I manage to unlock the door and make it inside. My eyes adjust to the darkness and scan the mess that’s scattered around the living room. Pizza boxes, soda cans, biscuit packages. Crowley, Snow’s a pig. What in Merlin’s name would he do without Bunce taking care of him?

I pull my wand out of my pocket. “ **A Place for Everything and Everything in Its Place** ,” I spell, just above a whisper, and all the rubbish and miscellaneous objects Snow was too lazy to put away move back to their respective locations. The bin fills up and the remaining garbage piles up neatly next to it. To be taken out tomorrow, I note.

A water class from the coffee table lands on the kitchen counter, making a louder noise than I expect, and I see a movement out of the corner of my eye. Snow, half-asleep, sits up on the couch, and I freeze.

He staggers to his feet, his blanket falling to the floor. My eyes drift down from his face, his messy bronze hair, eyes thick with sleep, and I take in his abruptly-awoken appearance. He’s not wearing a shirt – the moles across his chest and stomach creating constellations I could chart if given the time – and his navy sweatpants are an inch or so too short, displaying his ankles, as well as his bare feet. Back up to his face. He’s standing now and looks furious, or maybe he just looks groggy. Probably furious. We’re always furious with each other over something.

“I-” he blusters. A pause. “You’re-”

“Back?” I offer. I try to sound nonchalant, but it comes out as a croak. “Yeah.” I need sleep. I make for my room, and I hear Snow take a few unsteady steps after me. He would want to do this now – hash out all the details of what he’s missed. He always must know what’s going on.

“Don’t,” I can’t talk anymore tonight, and I’m too tired to come up with my cover story on the spot. “Just,” I pause. “Stay away from me, Snow. I’ll be in my room for the next couple of weeks. Quarantining.”  
  
I can’t get sick – vampires just don’t get sick – but Simon doesn’t need to know that. I just need some time.

I finally make it into my bedroom, wand in hand. “ **Let there be light** ,” I mumble, taking off my shoes and moving toward my bed. My bed. I’m overjoyed with the prospect of sleeping in my own bed tonight. But something’s not right. Something’s different.

My violin case is lying on the bed, which is decidedly not where I’d left it. Someone has been in my room.

Simon is the obvious, and probably least threatening, answer. I can still smell him in the room, on the bed. He has such a distinct scent. If I didn’t live with him, knowing better, I would think that he smoked like a chimney. I should be worried, but I can only lay down on my bed, not bothering to change out of the clothes I’ve been wearing for days. I should be wondering what he was doing snooping through my stuff, but I can only breathe in the smoky scent he left behind and dream about the stars.

* 

(around 10:15 am)

I awake to a pounding at my bedroom door. Snow honestly doesn’t give a _shit_ about waking me up. I can’t go through this right now. I refuse. “Go away,” I snarl, pulling the pillow over my head. The knocking continues. I close my eyes tight; I was having a wonderful dream – for a change. I’m usually plagued by nightmares. He is too, I think. We often find each other up and wandering about the flat at off hours of the night.

He knocks again, louder this time. I grab my wand off the nightstand and open the door. “ _What the fuck_ could you possibly want right now?”

“Where have you been?”

“That’s none of your business,” I say, attempting to sound as unbothered as I can under the circumstances.

“Baz, tell me where you were.”

“Snow,” I sneer. “I would have thought you’d have been thrilled that I was gone. Why are you so _obsessed_ with me? I mean, did you think about anything else while I was away? _Do I dazzle you_?” In all honestly, the thought of Snow thinking about me while I was gone was a lot for me to handle, emotionally.

“I need to know!” He almost shouts it, and I can smell his magic emanating off him.

“The only thing you _need_ to do right now is **sod off**.”

Surprisingly, the spell works, even with my mind moving sluggishly, though I force myself to turn before I see the result. Behind me, I hear him picking him himself up a few feet back and walk off, giving up. For now.

Sighing, I close my bedroom door and lay on my back in bed. I’m wide awake now, and I’m struggling to hold onto my lovely dream. The plot is fading, but I remember the hero – blue eyes, golden brown curls, freckles and moles splattered across his skin – clear as day. The face I was staring into, moments before.

Groaning, I heave myself out of bed; my head still feels heavy, like I could have slept for years. However, the window needs closing – the sun is shining through, and it stings. 

I flick through my closet, before changing into a pair of charcoal trousers and a white linen button-up. I may be stuck inside, but that doesn’t mean I have to waste away in my jim-jams. I open the door slowly and peak out. I hear Simon banging about in the kitchen, so I manage to sneak into our bathroom without incident. It’s a right mess, but I don’t have my wand, and I’d rather not clean it all by hand. My toiletries are still organized in the cupboard, and I focus on quickly taking care of myself: brushing my teeth, shaving, et cetera.

In the hall again, I glance toward the kitchen; Snow was cooking something, and I was so taken aback, I considered making a snarky comment. I don’t think I’ve ever known Snow to cook anything – he’s always been a bit useless. However, I decide to silently go back to my room and occupy myself some other way.

Inside, I spell the door, making the room soundproof, and ready my violin; I don’t like anybody besides family hearing me practice. I took lessons as a child, but I stopped around age 14. That’s when I really realized that I was _different_ , that I was a monster, and I increasingly longed for solitude. I’ve practiced on my own since then.

Not long after I begin playing, there’s another knock at my door, softer this time. “Baz…” Snow says quietly from the other side. I frown and stand up, walking to the door. When I open it, there’s a plate of scrambled eggs on the floor, along with a cup of tea. Snow is sitting down the hall with his own plate and a glass of milk.

“You haven’t eaten,” he says, embarrassed, and smiles awkwardly, mouth full of egg. “And luckily for you, eggs are one of the only things I know how to make.” He swallows and adds, “And luckily for me, I used your eggs, because I’m out of food.”

“How do you know that I even need to eat?” I sneer. But I down at the plate again, and I realize just how hungry I am. I sigh, and, reluctantly, I grab the plate and sit in front of my closed door, leaning against it.

“Lucky guess,” he grins. “I couldn’t remember whether I’ve ever seen you eat or not.” He looks genuinely curious about it, with his eyes wide and brow furrowed slightly – and really, what do I have to lose in telling him about it? I already drunkenly told him the one secret I vowed to myself I’d never tell anybody.

“I don’t usually eat in front of other people,” I say, stabbing some egg with my fork. “My…” I trail off, considering him. “My fangs pop. Noticeably.”

“Are you going to eat in front of me?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I inspect the tea he made. It’s in a mug that says _WORLD’S BEST BOSS_ (which I’m sure is a reference I don’t understand), and the tea bag is still submerged.

I’m fairly confident that Snow isn’t trying to poison me with this gesture, the tea and breakfast. I truly don’t think he’d even be able to make a proper poison if he tried. His strengths lie more in the physical combat areas of magickal studies, rather than potions and alchemy.

I take a cautionary sip and wince immediately at the sweetness, sitting the mug to the side. “How in Merlin’s name do you take your tea with this much sugar, Snow?”

He chuckles and says, “I thought I was going easy on you, too.”

I stab the eggs with my fork again and attempt a bite, trying not to bare my fangs as I do so. Simon is graciously quiet for a moment – not asking any questions or just talking to fill space for a change; while we eat, neither of us say anything.

I glance at Simon, and he’s eating, staring down and off to the side, like he’s in a daze – somehow he can daydream and stuff his face at the same time; I take this as an opportunity to study him, though I know his face as well as my own (maybe better than my own).

He’s got on the same blue sweatpants from last night, but now with a pair of white socks and a red t-shirt, which makes the gold in his golden-brown hair look especially brilliant. He needs a haircut. It’s longer than usual, flopping over his eyes when he’s bent forward like this. I’m tempted to take him to the bathroom and cut it myself, letting my hands pull through his curls, rubbing my hands along the size of his head as I clip the side and back short, how he always wears it. He finishes his eggs.

“I know,” I say evenly, “that you were in my room.” I take another bite. I want to be angry about it. I _should_ be angry about it. But I’m not, and I don’t know why (though, I really _do_ know why).

Snow doesn’t deny it, but instead, he just says “I thought you were plotting to kill me. Or other people.” He’s looking at me now, wearing that same expression, with his eyes wide and brow slightly furrowed. His mouth hangs open slightly (his mouth is always hanging open slightly).

“I wasn’t.”

“I know,” he says. A beat. “Where were you?”

I don’t have a story concocted yet, but I don’t want to lie. Not right now. “I was needed… elsewhere.” True.

Snow goes silent again, nodding, his eyes trailing towards the floor. Again, neither of us speak. I finish the plate – his eggs are surprisingly edible.

“I didn’t know that you played the violin,” he says, after a silence.

It’s my turn to nod now. “My whole life.”

At that, he lumbers to his feet, somewhat clumsily and takes a few tentative steps in my direction. He offers a small smile and takes my plate, leaving his terrible cup of tea for me to finish.

“I’d like to hear you play sometime,” he whispers, almost inaudibly.

*

Snow thinks I’m a pretentious prick, I know. Admittedly, I have never attempted to change his mind on the subject; I genuinely do enjoy reading classic literature and watching documentaries and critically acclaimed films and documentaries. They’re acclaimed because they’re _good_. He doesn’t understand that, obviously. He mainly watches mind-numbing, monotonous sitcoms – he has no appreciation for the classic.

However, once I’m back inside my bedroom, I soundproof the door again, grab my laptop, and watch the 2005 _Pride and Prejudice_ , which never fails to help me escape when it all become too much for me… when _Snow_ becomes too much for me.

*

The thirst consumes me entirely; it wakes me up, jolting me from my sleep at once. I entirely forgot about hunting tonight, but it’s impossible to forget now. I’m still half-asleep, but I manage to get dressed and put my shoes on without toppling over. I place my wand up my sleeve and slick my hair back. In the hallway, I avoid the boards that creak or groan; I’ve grown accustomed to sneaking around Snow, though I’m not sure it’s necessary anymore. He’s known the truth for months – I’m a bloodsucking monster, like it or not. But for whatever reason, he’s kept the secret. I don’t think he’s even told Bunce, though surely, she knows regardless.

I hear Simon shuffling about in his bedroom and check the time on my phone: 1:06 am. He was listening to music. He must be having trouble sleeping. I move quickly, quietly, and as gracefully as I can towards the front door. Once outside, I breathe deeply, taking in the city air. It smells dirty, vaguely of piss and garbage, but also salty, with a hint of liquor. It’s disgusting, but I love it. I start walking. I could easily spell some animals into making their way to the flat, but I enjoy these nighttime walks through nighttime London. There aren’t many people out, especially now, but those who are around never bother me. Normals are generally repelled by magicians, and a _vampire_ magician surely makes them feel as though they’d ought to stay on guard when I walk by.

I walk quickly, and within 30 minutes, I’m in Regent’s Park. Nobody’s around, so I hunt some squirrels, but just to be safe, I drain them behind the trees. Finally, I feel the thirst quench, and I’m able to think clearly again. I walk through the Southeast area, where they filmed that bit in _The King’s Speech_ , and through the inner circle. The park is beautiful at this time of year, and I think about what it would be like to saunter through here with Snow. Impossible, I think, and I stop the dream in its tracks. I make it to the open-air theatre in the park before turning back for the flat. My face is warm from drinking, and I can feel the blood sloshing in my stomach.

On the walk home, I pass an old building full of flats, and it sounds crowded and loud inside, and I pause – I recognize the smell. A vampire hub. The place they congregate after hunting.

For some reason, I feel the urge to go inside, to meet them, my fellow monsters. But then I think about them hunting, killing and draining innocent people in alleyways and dark corners. They’re worse than me, I tell myself. I may be a monster, but they’re worse. That fact is the only thing that makes my feet move again, one foot in front of the other, until I’m back in the flat. Simon’s music’s gone quiet, and his bedroom light is off.

I can’t stop thinking about those vampires. They’re monsters, but they’re together. I’ve felt alone, separated form everybody, my entire life. Everyone around me, my family, my classmates, the people I pass on the street. They’re all _so alive_ , and I’m dead and alone.

“You’re not dead,” I imagine Snow saying as I get ready to sleep again. “I don’t believe that you’re dead.”

But it’s just a dream.


	4. Devil's Trill

**Baz**

Snow and I are not friends. Though, we've been getting along for the past week now - not _getting along_ , per se, but coexisting. We spend time in the same room at the same time without making snide remarks at each other; we make enough dinner for two and eat our meals at the same time while sitting silently together at the same table; we even occasionally sit on the couch and watch the horrifically boring television programs he enjoys.

We've actually been watching through that obnoxious show he's always cracking up over... _Arrested Development_. Unfortunately, and against my own better judgement, it seems that the more I watch this mind-numbing show, the more I seem to be stifling my own laughter at how ridiculously stupid it all is (this is probably a form of Stockholm Syndrome I should be worried about). A couple of days ago, I managed to prank Snow with a reference to the show - let's just say I put a certain dead bird in a bag with a note (dead dove: do not eat), implying I was saving it for later. We're not friends, but we did have a good laugh about it. 

That's what we're doing this afternoon, watching that show; we're on season three. I glance over at Snow - very subtly, I might add - and notice that he's in the third of his seven TV watching positions: slouched down, his curly mop of hair barely above the back of the couch, with his legs stretched out before him and resting on the coffee table. His head was kind of lolled to the side, but his eyes were focused on the screen, taking in every absurd word and action. I hate that I have his the ways he lounges memorized - I'm psychotic.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks while the credits roll between episodes, the next one already queued up.

“I'm sure you're going to ask regardless of what my answer is,” I sigh.

“Well, when I was, er, in your room?" He winces a bit as he says it, but I try not to react. "I just, sort of, noticed, er-" He's always stammering and blustering. Really, spit it out, Snow. "Is your room always so freakishly clean?" 

I'm so surprised, I let out a full blown laugh. The way he was spluttering, I thought he was going to ask about my hunting habits or pronounce his undying love to me (yeah, right). “I always clean my bedroom before leaving town. I don't like coming back to a mess." Glancing around the noticeably not-clean room we're in now, I add, "I'd clean the rest of the flat too, if I knew you wouldn't destroy it again immediately after I left."

“I’m not that bad." He sits up a little straighter, and I note how cute he is when he's ruffled. "And you don't have a be such a prat."

"You're like a bloody tornado, Snow. Also, I do have to be a prat - I have a rep to protect.” And he smiles because, despite his protests, he knows it's true. And I think I smirk a little, despite myself.

"That's the most ridiculous thing you've ever said," he laughs, then pauses. "Can I ask one more question?"

"You ask so many fucking questions."

“Well, I have a lot _more_ , Baz, but I'm trying to keep the number down, so you won't give me that withering glare of yours,” he says, grinning at me. I'm not sure how much longer I can take this; I think this hanging around each other is harder than outwardly despising him. I want to touch him, grab him, kiss him. I don't say anything, and I try not to give him that withering glare. “This one's not actually a question," he continues. "It's more of a request."

I stay silent but raise my eyebrows in anticipation.

He sits up a little straighter on the couch and turns toward me. “Can you... call me Simon?” he says, his voice earnest. “If we're going to be friends, I'd like it if you called me by my name.”

He tousles his already quite-tousled hair and smiles. And he _wants_ to be _friends_ _?_

“Snow is your name,” is all I say. 

“Yeah,” he says, a bit apprehensively, "but you know what I mean. I like Simon." Yeah... I like Simon too.

"Whatever, but we're not _friends_."

His smile falters and he looks at me expectantly, like he's waiting for something.

I sigh. "We're not friends, _Simon_."

He settles back down into his slumping position with satisfaction and unpauses the show but pauses it again almost immediately. 

"You know, the minute you walked in the flat from... er, wherever you were," he says, "I'm surprised you weren't just itching to throw your arms around me."

"What are you on about?" I snap curtly. Quickly. Too quickly? 

He chuckles, a little nervously. "I just assumed, you know, that if you did have the coronavirus, you'd want me to get it." He looks at me again. "On the off chance I'd die."

"Believe you me," I snort. "When I do off you, I want it to be my own doing. Not the work of a viral infection."

We stare into each other's eyes for a moment - two moments - before busting into laughter. I can tell we're both laughing in a way that we're trying to hide it. I quickly put my hand in front of my mouth to stifle it, but Simon just smiles.

“Y'know, I think we're starting to run low on sustenance,” he says, rifling through the last bag of crisps, which he conquered on his own. “We're going to need to hit a corner shop soon for some more essentials." 

"And by essentials, you mean snack food to watch whilst binge watching Netflix."

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simon says. "I have no particular allegiance to Netflix. It could be Hulu or Disney+ for all I care." 

“I was mainly referring to the snacks.” 

“Oh. Well then, yes.” He smiles unabashedly and ruffles his hair a bit. Every stupid grin he gives me is a travesty. "I need snacks."

“I'll go,” I say, standing up. "I haven't gone on my one government-approved walk of the day yet." I grab a few of the empty cans and wrappers off the table to throw away.

“Nah, you don't have to do that,” Simon says. "I'm the one wolfing everything down, after all."

“Don't worry about it.” As I say it, his phone rings. Bunce calling. "I got it," I smirk, pulling on a mask. I don't need it, but it makes everyone else more comfortable.

As I'm closing the door behind me, I hear Bunce's voice ringing loud and clear. "Simon, I just talked to Agatha." Fuck.

It's not that I'm enjoying the global pandemic, of course, but as somebody who, as a general rule, crosses the street whenever anybody is walking toward me anyway, I'm enjoying the ability to do it now without looking like a complete arse. Quite honestly, I relish the opportunity to walk to Sainsbury's on a bright and sunny day like today without the struggle of actively going out of my way to avoid others - I can't tell if the sun isn't burning me, or I'm just too chuffed to care. The sunshine makes me smile a bit, despite myself (and my discomfort), reminding me of the pick-up games of football that Dev, Niall, and I, along with a few others would play in the park; I'm missing the boarding school days, when I played on the school team, rather than just with mates. and was I would give my right arm for an off-the-cuff football match right about now.

At Sainsbury's, I meander (as much as meandering is allowed at the moment) through the aisles, picking up this and that (essentials), before hitting the back shelves of sweets and biscuits and just dropping everything into the basket - Hobnobs, Digestives, Jammie Dodgers. On the way back to the front of the shop, I grab a bag of crisps and add it to my large pile of garbage that we (Simon) will inhale this evening. I pay with my mobile at the till. On the walk back to the flat, I stop by my favorite tea shop. It's not open at the moment, but Jon, who owns it, is an old friend of my Aunt Fiona's, and he's always around, so I know he'll let me in.

“Basilton,” Jon says when I knock, smiling pleasantly and propping open the door. "What can I do for you?"

“I was hoping for the usual,” I say, and Jon is already walking toward his backroom. He's a mage, but he gave up the magickal life and married a Normal - the ultimate rebellion, which is probably why Aunt Fiona respects him, though she says she'd never do the same. I admit, it's absolutely batshit, but the guy makes a proper good tea blend. I wait in the door frame, and a couple minutes later, Jon returns carrying a small parcel I know to be filled with various containers of loose leaf tea. I slip the package into my bag and reach for my wallet.

Jon holds up his hand. “Not necessary amid these trying times, lad. We're all in need of a good cup of tea right about now, and seeing as I'm not officially open for business, I'm not officially selling this to you.”

“Thank you, Jon. Stay safe.” We smile. Jon locks the door, as I turn and make my way home. If I have anything to say about it, Snow will know what a quality tea tastes like by the end of lockdown.

When I walk in, Snow is waiting, his blade out and raised (which unfortunately, is not a euphemism). He's an idiot, if he thinks holding a sword to my face is a good idea inside the flat. You'd think I'd be terrified, or at least surprised that my budding friendship with my sworn enemy has led to a sword at my throat. I'm neither; mostly, I suppose, I feel vaguely disappointed. Regardless, I straighten up immediately, still clutching my shopping bags. So much for friendship.

"Put that away," I snarl, "unless you're looking to get evicted and expelled, and possibly tried halfway through your first swing."

He hesitates before lowering the weapon, but doesn't put it away yet. "Why were you with Agatha?" he growls.

“You don't understand, Snow," I spit.

"What were you trying to do? Turn her against me? Seduce her? Make her into... what you are? It would never work - she thinks you're a _monster_." He's speaking through gritted teeth. 

“I thought you were supposed to be the superhero, the good guy,” I say, walking toward him. “But you don't even want to hear my side of the story?”

"Well, I'm not a superhero. And maybe I'm just as much a bad guy as you." He raises the sword threateningly, as if this proves his point. It doesn't.

I turn to the side, so as to not look Snow directly in his eyes. “She needed my help,” I begin. And then I tell him what happened.

*

Apparently, last year, after Snow and Wellbelove broke up, she decided to travel to America and spend the summer holiday there - her own little _Eat, Pray, Love_ , sans the eating and praying. And _apparently_ , she met a guy, Wesley Collins and they had a very brief and very romantic _fling_.

 _"Wes reminded me of you, Baz."_ Wellbelove told me after everything. _"Not in his looks, necessarily, but in his demeanor. He was dark and mysterious. It was... intoxicating."_

He tried to convince her to stay, to drop out or enroll in an American university, but she said that she had to return, at least for her family. They exchanged contact information - phone numbers and addresses (he seemingly wanted to write letters; how very romantic) - and she came back to school.

After Wellbelove dropped Bunce off at home for lockdown, she drove to her parents' to find a surprise. Wes was waiting outside the house. _“I haven't stopped thinking about you for a minute,”_ he told her, taking her hands in his. _"Run away with me."_ So she told her mother and father she would be staying with Bunce, and she ran away with him. Like a fool.

I was in Hampshire with my family when she texted texted - just an address and the words: i need help. please come. As melodramatic and off-putting as I find Wellbelove, I couldn't bloody well going to ignore that.

The address led me to a country home in Derbyshire; they were just using it for a couple of weeks. When I arrived, fortunately, Wes was elsewhere - picking up dinner, Wellbelove said. _"I thought... I thought it was all a big grand gesture, like in the movies. But he's..."_ she looked at me guiltily for a moment. _"He's a vampire. I'm sorry, Baz. I didn't know who else to call."_ Trying not to acknowledge her blanket statement of what I am, I simply asked what she needed of me.

He was obsessed with her, with turning her. She is objectively beautiful; she _would_ make a lovely looking vampire. However, Wes wanted it to be a momentous, idyllic Turning, so when she expressed her reservations, he was willing to wait (like a true psychopath).

 _“I'm so stupid,”_ Wellbelove cried, wiping the tears from her cheeks - somehow she was still incredibly beautiful when she cried, like she was glowing from within. _“I should have known there was something wrong with him. Normals have never wanted anything to do with me. They can smell the magic and are completely repelled."_

 _"And he probably smelled the magic and sought you out."_ I, probably unhelpfully, pointed out.

I sat with Wellbelove until Wes returned, and I met him in the foyer. He had blonde hair, cropped short, and stood tall and burly. He had just taken off his baseball cap, and I noted his white socks and clunky trainers - very American. He appraised me with a look of surprise and distaste, and I introduced myself. _"Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch."_

He nodded and said, _"Wesley Collins."_

 _“I'm here to pick up Miss Wellbelove,”_ I said, stepping toward him.

Wes gave me a slow once-over, and I could tell he was trying to figure out how quickly he could kill me with his bare hands. Probably very quickly. _“I don't think you'll be taking her anywhere."_ he said finally.

 _"Oh no, I most definitely am."_ At that point, I lit a fire in my hand, and Wes literally leaped back. It was actually quite funny watching him try to figure out whether I had a death wish or if I would actually be a formidable opponent (both, probably). After all, Wes didn't have magic on his side. He had a murderous look in his eye, but remained still. It was then that Wellbelove came downstairs, luggage in hand, and carried it outside without looking at either of us.

Once the door had closed behind her, Wes observed me again with a different look in his eye. _"You know,"_ he said, stepping toward me cautiously, _"there aren't very many vampires with your, er, particular skill set."_ I extinguished the flame, but pulled out a cigarette and lit it with my wand. Showing off? It had to be done. _"I have some friends back stateside. We're apart of a..."_ he paused, searching for the right word. _"A coven. I think you'd make a valuable member of our little group."_ He smiled, then - it was a harsh, cruel smile, and I imagined the horrible things he and his _friends_ got up to in the big cities of America. Hunting humans, definitely. Probably torturous hunting, killing them slowly. I've heard of _covens_ like this, and in general, they like to play with their food.

 _"You're already ruined, like the rest of us. You don't have to be alone."_ he added. _"Think about it."_ I don't have to be alone.

The drive back to the Wellbelove hearth was mostly silent. She did a lot of scrolling on her phone as I drove. 

_"Hey,"_ she said, eventually. She was reclining in the passenger seat and holding her phone inches from her face. _"Hey,"_ she said again, adding emphasis that time, smacking me in the arm without peeling her eyes away from the screen.

 _"What?"_ I responded, only because _not_ responding means getting physically assaulted, apparently.

 _"Thank you."_ I glanced at her and, while she was still looking at her phone, she was no longer scrolling.

_"Don't mention it."_

_"I mean it."_ She put the phone down and turned in her seat, so that she was facing me. _"Thank you. I know I'm not you're favorite person, but I... I knew you'd understand. And you'd help me."_

I kept my eyes on the road but gripped the steering wheel tighter. _"No one should have to become a monster."_

 _"You're not a monster,"_ she said so quietly that only a vampire could hear.

The entire trip only took a couple of days, but I checked into a hotel, thinking about what Wes had said; it was a tempting offer.

*

I tell Snow everything. _Almost_ everything. I leave out the bit surrounding the invitation to join a vampire coven - somehow, I don't think that will go over well.

**Simon**

Penny told me not to do anything stupid, but hear I am, holding the Sword of Mages up to Baz's throat, risking activating the Anathema.

"Why didn't you just... say all of that? When I asked where you were before?"

"Because it wasn't my story to tell, though I suppose I'm too much of a self-preservationist to keep it to myself when in mortal peril."

I believe him. I sheath the sword and back away from him, though I can't quite meet his gray eyes (but I can feel them boring into me). Believing Baz - it's a little unnerving. I mean, he's a jerk and a bully, but he's not dishonest. Well, he's not seriously dishonest. For so long, my energy went into hating him, my rival, my mortal enemy. Now, the energy just doesn't know where to go.

"I'm sorry," I grunt. "It's just... Penny called and said Agatha hadn't been returning her calls until today. And all she said was that she didn't want to talk about it, and she was with you. It's- you- I... I just got, er, protective, I guess." I risk looking at him, but he doesn't look mad. He looks unruffled, maybe even sympathetic? 

"It's fine," is all Baz says, nodding stiffly, before walking to his room and quietly closing the door.

I don't know how to be Baz's... Baz's friend. He can be so cold and cruel. He's always plotting something. He did something horrible last year to Philippa Stainton's voice. And Noah Clark never came back after what Baz did to his mind - they came back from their practical examination for a dueling course, and Noah came back mumbling utter nonsense to himself with his eyes glazed over. And he was never punished for it. But he's been so agreeable for the past week or so. And before that, he really saved Agatha. _Why didn't she call me?_ Because I'm not a vampire? Because she's always had a sweet spot for Baz? I can't hold that against him, though I do think he may have flirted with her to get on my nerves when she and I were first going together. But he wasn't angry at having my sword raised at him; he actually looked a little... sad. 

Just then, I hear something coming from his room. [A song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u91t_gNshTw). A solemn, tragic song. I walk toward his room, listening to the tortured melody. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard. Leaning against the wall outside his bedroom, I slide down to a sitting position and listen. It only goes on for a few minutes, but I remain sitting in the silence for a while after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want anybody reading this to know that i tried very hard to think of a call me by your name joke when simon asked baz to call him simon. that's all. thanks for reading! pls leave a kudos if you're enjoying? and comment or share with friends? it nourishes me
> 
> PS one line was very much taken from this rainbow tweet: https://twitter.com/rainbowrowell/status/1243268150524809226


	5. Football Practice

**Baz**

Of course Snow wouldn't immediately trust my intentions to be good. Despite what he had said, we were never _friends_ , and knowing the two of us, we never would be. I just wish that knowledge would sink into my thoughts, which still seem decidedly intent on continuing to obsess over him. I know that he's a complete and utter idiot, but I suppose the bravery surrounding his idiocy must really do something for me. I'm sure that the true reason for his upset surrounding my "rescue" of Wellbelove is a classic case of his hero complex. _Why hadn't she asked him?_ he must be thinking. And surely, he could have killed Wes in a heartbeat; I've seen his skill with the blade. Obviously, she asked me because I'm a vampire. But all that matters to Snow is that she chose me over him, and he's clearly not over her.

While I'm a little disappointed (though not surprised), what's confusing is the fact that I genuinely believed, for a short while, at least, that we might have a chance at friendship. Because I'm more of an idiot than he is, apparently. I just need to get out of this flat. I check the clock. 7:04 am. I barely slept last night; I had fallen way behind in my courses, and while I'm not struggling with any of the material, there's still a lot of busy work I need to catch up on. But I'll have to work on it later. Now, I just have to clear my head the only way I know how. I change into gym clothes, grab my sports bag, and decide to sneak out as quietly as possible to avoid any confrontation.

“Morning,” I hear an anxious voice say immediately upon my exit from my bedroom. Snow is sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast and offering an uneasy smile. I freeze in my tracks. “I want to say I'm sorry. For, you know, almost attacking you. If we're..." he stops, considering what he's about to say. "If we're going to be friends, we need to trust each other. And I didn't do that yesterday."

“There's no need to apologize,” I say, putting my sports bag on the floor, bending down to pull up my socks, and re-tying my trainers (as a means of avoiding eye contact). “After all, there's not any chance of us actually becoming friends. I never really believed it for a second. It's just a ploy, on your part, to get my defenses down.” Standing up again, I meet Snow's startled gaze. He actually looks speechless - something I never thought would happen - for a moment. Such a miracle could never last.

“You don't have to be such a prat. You _can't_ believe that. We've been getting along, having fun.”

"We haven't been. Just because we're stuck together, that doesn't mean we have to become best friends all of a sudden. Things aren't going to change."

"They could change," he said, reaching for my arm.

"Look, Snow, I don't _like_ you and you don't like me. And more importantly, we will _never_ trust each other.” He winced a little at that, pulling his arm back. I take the moment to tie my hair up.

“I don't - why can't we just - look. I really am sorry, and I think we _can_ be friends."

"Well, if you think that's true, then, miraculously, you're an even bigger idiot than I originally thought.” With that, I pick up my sports bag and turn toward the door. There's little I love more than making a memorable entrance, but I'm just as content with a dramatic exit.

The last thing I hear before closing our front door behind me is Snow's "Baz, come on, wait -"

Halfway down the block, I take note of what a beautiful day it is. It's cloudy enough for the sun to shine without bothering me at all. The air is cool, though not cold, but I vaguely wish I'd worn long sleeves. But there's no way I'm going back to that flat. I pick up the pace, hoping that once I start practicing, I'll warm up a bit. After a few minutes, however, a chill comes over me - the sort of chill that comes from being followed. I turn sharply, ready to confront who or what's behind me, only to find Snow, who must have been trailing me this entire time. He's wearing a green Watford jumper over a black t-shirt and a pair of white shorts that rest mid-thigh. Fighting the lustful urge to study every detail of his legs, which I have somehow never seem this much of, I focus my eyes on his face - his stupid, optimistic face with his big blue eyes and his freckles and moles - to ask, “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

Snow raises his eyes and exhales through his always-slightly open mouth (though it's not quite a a sigh). "Just thought we could play some football. Mate." 

“Stay away from me," I snarl. I turn my back to him and walk, only for him to continue following me. I pretend he's not for another block. And another. I try to focus on the shops I'm passing that are closed or the couple walking arm-in-arm on the other side of the road, but Snow isn't one to be ignored.

“We're going to be friends,” he says, smiling, when I turn around again.

“We're _not_ going to be friends. I don't want to be your friend. I like not being your friend.” I start walking again; I can see the park now, at the end of the next block. Snow falls into step next to me.

“Well, I do like being your friend. It definitely beats than the alternative.”

"And what's that? Killing each other?"

"Well, obviously. But I think it's better than just sulking around the flat hating each other, too. And it's better than _plotting_. One of us always seems to be plotting, and it sucks."

My witty retort is just some unintelligible mumbling. 

We don't speak as we arrive at the park, nor as we walk through the gardens. We don't say anything walking past the open-air theatre or one of the many ponds. Neither of us say a word as I throw my bag down and pull the football out. Snow, in fact, doesn't even seem interested in playing. I start running drills with the ball, dribbling back and forth, and Snow just flops himself onto the ground and watches, a small smile playing on his lips; it's insufferable.

But that's not quite true; knowing that Snow's watching is making me work harder to show off a bit - stopping to juggle the ball, knocking it against my knees. Every move I make, I can feel his eyes following me. At some point, I guess it just becomes too unbearable; maybe that's why I kick the ball over to him. But regardless of my reason, I give him the ball, and he lets his face break out into a big grin. He leaps to his feet, and you'd think he's been called up to play for a tier team, rather than with his... enemy? Rival? Friend? Whatever.

“If you're going to let me play,” he says, kicking the ball back and grabbing his ankle to stretch (Crowley, his _thighs_ are remarkable), "then I think we should make this interesting." He pulls his other ankle and thinks for a moment before stating: "Loser makes dinner for the winner."

I stare at him, probably looking incredulous; I'm still surprised he wants anything to do with me, but I try to cover it up by clearing my throat and shrugging lightly. "Honestly, that sounds like a lose-lose bet on my end."

"Well, then what do you want if you win?"

I want him, obviously. “Nothing. Dinner's fine,” I mumble towards him, heading to one side of the area to mark off a makeshift goal with some sticks. Snow does the same on his side, and we meet in the middle. He reaches out his hand, and we shake; when our hands touch, I feel intense heat - I forgot how strong his magic is. He never uses it himself, if he can help it. I breathe in suddenly and recognize his familiar, smoky scent.

"Best of five?" he says. 

"That sounds good to me."

And then the games begin. I'm not sure if I've ever seen Snow play before; he's not bad. At all. He's in decent shape - I suppose it's all the hunting down hares and slaying dragons - and his reflexes are quick, as to be expected. Every now and then, the clouds would part, and his bronze hair would almost glow in the sunlight as the curls bounced on top of his head. He scores against me. _Fuck_. He laughs and does a victory dance, ending with him blowing a kiss to the imaginary stands. I roll my eyes so hard I feel like I might not ever be able to see again. Then, I stop myself from studying his every move long enough to score two goals against him, offering a small victory dance of my own after the second. However, he gets possession of the ball after my attention's diverted by the very... distracting grunt he makes in his effort. He scores and we're tied 2-2.

Undeterred, I manage to get the ball and make for Snow's goal. I can feel him gaining on me, but I spin out of his way, just missing his attempt to steal. I get in shooting distance of the goal, and in what I can only assume is a final act of desperation, he lunges toward me, tackling me to the ground. I'm flat on my back and he's on all fours above me, trying to look tough, but the twinkle in his eye betray his emerging smile. My eyes trail down from to the mole on his cheek (that I desperately want to kiss, and now I'm closer to it than I've ever been), then to his lips, full and parted. I can feel whatever blood is left in me rushing to my cheeks, and I look to the side before I can even process exactly what's happening.

"This has got to be a foul," I sputter unintelligently.

“And what are you going to do about it?” asked Snow, and I'm not sure if it's a hypothetical question or not. In a normal situation on a normal day, this position - Snow nearly pinning me down - would mean I was about to die. And while I truly do feel like I'm going to die, like Snow is going to kill me, right now, in this moment I feel so alive. Snow hasn't said anything yet, so I probably need to come up with some witty and aloof retort, and quickly, but my brain has gone to static and words are impossible to find.

Just then, a rustling in the bushes nearby causes us both to nearly jump out of our skin. Snow straightened at once, looking apprehensively for the source of the movement. My senses felt heightened, and I was _very_ aware of every blade of grass underneath me, _very_ attentive to whoever or whatever might happen to crawl out of the shrubs, and _very_ conscious of Snow's legs, still very much straddling me.

Still flat on my back, I pull my wand out of my sock and point it toward the bushes. **"Come out, come out, wherever you are,"** I spell. A beat. I'm not sure that the spell even works. The leaves rustled again, and a huge red lizard crawls out. Actually huge. Like 5 feet long and bright scarlet - I've studied these monsters: fire salamanders. They're almost never seen, but for some reason, one's right here in the middle of London.

Instincts kicking in, I shove Snow off of me and leap to my feet, and he does the same.

"Watch out, they spit fire." I warn him, and he nods gravely. He summons his sword, and I grip my wand, and together we stand to face the creature. I'm feeling less brave than I probably look. After all, this is a fire creature, and I'm flammable. More flammable than most people.

 **“Back off,”** I shout at the salamander. I would much rather it leave on its own than have to harm it. There aren't very many of them anymore - they were hunted toward extinction in the seventeenth century because they were thought to have a precious elemental stone in their stomach. The lizard is completely unfazed by the spell, though, and keeps crawling toward Snow and me. It spits a flame, and Snow blocks it with his blade. I try another spell: **"Guts for garters!"** It's just as unsuccessful as the first. My magic is useless. Snow realizes this, too.

“Get behind me,” he shouts, but I ignore him, searching my mind for another spell to use. The salamander spits again, and I **make a wish** the spot of grass that caught fire, extinguishing it immediately. It looks directly at me, then rears its head back and becomes a reptilian flamethrower.

I throw myself to the side, barely avoiding catching fire and perishing on the spot, but the fire must have gotten close. I felt an intense pain across my back, the burn stinging and leaving my vision fuzzy. I push my chest off the ground and see Snow swinging at the giant lizard, and I notice that he's starting to glow. My eyes fall shut, and he goes off.


	6. Nursing Him Back to Health

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> team let baz have chest hair,, that's all

**Simon**

Carrying Baz back to the flat was proving to be more difficult than I imagined. The problem isn't that he's heavy - in fact, he's surprisingly lighter than I thought he'd be, considering his height - but rather that I'm not in peak condition at the moment. After I go off, I always feel really drained, like all the strength in me has poured out. I must have some control over myself when it happens, but it's definitely not conscious; Baz is still in one piece and breathing, after all, which is more than I can say for that fire lizard. 

The flat's only a few blocks away, but the walk takes ages. Thanks to Covid, the streets are relatively empty, but while crossing the road, I walk by a couple of girls staring incredulously at us. I try my best to shrug and feign a laugh and not look like a serial killer with my latest victim thrown casually over my shoulder, and I think it works. Maybe they'll think he's just my wasted friend I'm carrying home. Once inside the flat, I manage to get Baz onto his bed before my adrenaline runs out entirely, and my legs stop working altogether. I end up crashing on the couch for an indeterminable amount of time, though it's still light out when I come to (or it's light out again). I check my phone - it's only been an hour.

I heave myself off the couch, groaning at the effort. I feel completely exhausted, but at least I can support myself again. I trudge across the flat to Baz's room, and the door is still open, the way I'd left it. I shuffle toward Baz's unconscious body. He doesn't look like the fire hit him, but something must have happened. I mean, he passed out. I put my hand on his back, and he grimaces; I notice that a bit of the shirt between his shoulders is singed. Alright, I struggle getting him into a sitting position, but finally he is on the edge of the bed in front of me, his shoulders slumping and his face against my chest. Carefully, I pull his shirt off and lay him back down on his stomach. Immediately realize that I'll have to get mad about the fact that he has more chest hair than I do later, because _fuck_.

Baz's entire back is red and, in some places, blistering. If I weren't rubbish with healing spells, it would be an easy fix. However, I worry that an attempt to fix this with magic would only make it worse - at best, Baz would end up covered in feathers or something. I try and call Penny, but she doesn't answer, leaving me to turn to Google for advice and find a Normal solution that will do the job for now. I do my best to clean the burns, using cool, not cold, water, etc. Hurrying back to my bedroom, I try to imagine what Penny would say to me now. _"Stay calm,"_ probably. If she were here, she could do the healing spells herself; she's great with them. I rummage through my drawers. Somewhere in here I have a Normal first aid kit. I hid it because I knew that Baz would never let me live my discomfort with healing spells down, but at the moment I'm really regretting it. I find the container behind my underwear and socks, grab the aloe and gauze, and run back to Baz's room.

I shake Baz's leg to make sure he's still out cold. He's breathing evenly, but he doesn't stir. He could come to at any moment, so I should probably act quickly. I straddle him, sitting on his thighs, and squeeze a generous amount of the cool aloe into my hand. After quickly rubbing my hands together, I move them to his back, spreading the gel across every inch of his exposed skin. I feel the taut muscles just under the surface of his skin - he's much stronger than he looks.

After I finish with the aloe and apply the gauze, I get my laptop from my room and sit on the floor, my back against the side of Baz's bed. I can hear his steady breathing behind me. I pull up Netflix and watch some _Schitt's Creek_. A couple of hours (and six episodes) pass when I hear a soft laugh over my shoulder.

“You're awake,” I say, turning to meet the gray eyes behind me. In response, he gives me a look that's half-smirk and half-grimace. "How are you feeling?"

“Like absolute shit,” says Baz, squinting down at me. “What the fuck have you done to me?”

I I put my laptop on the floor next to me, and defensively, I turn all the way around, kneeling next to him. "What do you mean 'what have _I_ done?' _I'm_ not the one who attacked you. It was that bloody lizard."

“No, I know who did _that_ ,” Baz says, making an attempt to gesture at his back. "And it was a salamander, not a _lizard_. I'm talking about the disgusting goop you've covered me in."

“It's aloe,” I offer.

“I don't actually give a fuck _what_ it is, Snow. Just, please, get it off of me and use a proper healing spell."

"I would actually rather not.”

“Then hand me my wand, would you? I'll do it myself,” Baz says, trying not to sound too pleading. “You’d probably mess me up pretty roughly, anyway.” 

“Well, er, I'm not sure you'll be able to reach, but alright." I hand him his wand, and to both of our dismay, I'm right. He isn't able to get a good enough angle to cast a spell, leaving him lying face down on his bed looking like he's trying to reach an itch.”

“Please, just fucking do something,” he implores. “ **Early to bed, early to rise** , or **good as new** , or even just **get well soon**. Literally anything.”

“I don't want to make anything worse,” I say, panicking at the thought of turning Baz into a bird or something accidentally. "But it's not like I can take you to the emergency room right now. There are too many Covid patients."

"I also don't think they're particularly accustomed to aiding vampires. Just having my vitals checked would probably spark some questions."

“Right, and that,” I say, looking down. "So you're stuck with my home remedy." I look up again at Baz's exasperated expression.

“Fine,” he says aggressively. "Do you at least have any Normal painkillers to ease the burning sensation?" It was a sarcastic question, but I present him with a Naprosyn and a glass of water anyway. He rolls his eyes, but takes it.

"How did this even happen?” I ask. “The fire didn't touch you; your shirt wasn't messed up at all.”

“Vampires burn,” he says simply, looking me in the eyes. “Easier than everyone else. It makes a close call, er, an even closer call.”

I nod, not knowing exactly what to say next. We both seem to have trailed off in thought until I realize that since he's confined to his bed, I have to make the move, so I stand up to leave. After asking if he needed food or help getting to the bathroom (as if he was going to accept that; he just asks me to hand him a book - _N.P._ by Banana Yoshimoto), I leave him to himself, telling him to just shout if he needs anything.

I succeeded in ignoring the strange, tight panicked feeling that had made itself at home in my chest since I saw Baz pass out in the park, but as soon as I leave his bedroom, knowing that he was and would be alright, I'm surprised by the overwhelming surge of relief that floods my consciousness. As much of a prick Baz can be (and he _is_ ), and as much as I've threatened (and _wanted_ ) to kill him in the past, I was worried. I'm glad he's okay. After all, I'm not about to let some fire lizard, or "salamander," be the death of Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch - that's my job. And surely, that's all that I was upset about.

After I finish convincing myself of that, I end up sitting on the couch, not watching anything, but trying to will myself to think about anything but Baz. Despite the fact that I try very hard not to think about things that require too much... thought (hence my constant binge-watching of mind-numbing sitcoms), I can't but think about the boy lying in the other room. Yeah, he's a complete pain in the arse, but when we're spending time together, and not exuding hostile energy, I like being around him. And I want to keep spending time around him. With him. I royally fucked up about the Agatha thing, but when we were playing football earlier - before the lizard attacked - we were having fun. I think? And when we were on the ground... I don't know what I thought was going to happen. What I wanted to have happen. This is why I try to avoid thinking at all costs.

To drown out my thoughts, I decide to turn on Netflix and finish the episode from earlier. I get through five minutes, then Baz hobbles out of his room. He's hunching slightly, and he's holding onto the wall for support, but he's smiling. Or, he's smirking. A smirk is the most of a smile I think he's capable of.

“How dare you,” he began, accusingly, "try to finish this episode without me." He frowns. I thought he was about to break out his French, screaming _"J'accuse!"_ followed by the plethora of other French swear words I'm sure he's familiar with, but he just perches carefully on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“I thought you needed rest,” I say, trying to frown more stoically. “I still think you should be resting - _lying down_.” I stand up, and any thoughts I was having on _why_ I feel this way are gone and replaced with the mission of getting Baz back to bed. I lightly take him by the arm to guide him back, but he gently maneuvers it out of my grip. I try again, but he merely gives me an exasperated expression.

“I'm alright,” he says weakly, pulling out of my grasp again. "Trust me, nothing makes me feel more at peace and ready-to-heal than stressing you out. You know, _plotting_."

“Are you?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Are you plotting something right now? You can tell me - I can take it.” I try out my own smirk, though it probably comes off as a weird sneer-slash-smile.

“You know this is all part of my plan, Snow,” Baz says roughly, like his voice is wearing thin. He's still got his smirk on, however. “Almost burning to death, being your damsel in distress, desperately needing you to nurse me back to health.”

I feel myself start to blush a little and cover it with a cough and hair ruffle for good measure.

“No, I'm not,” he says finally, and his face becomes serious. “Don’t worry; the only thing on my mind right now is what will happen to this truly dysfunctional family, I swear. Now play the fucking show.” 

*

Later, as we continue watching TV, Baz now lying across the couch on his stomach after I slid to the floor, mirroring our earlier seating arrangement in his bedroom, neither of us speak or move, so that the only noise in the room is coming from the speakers. I suppose we're both still not entirely comfortable with _friendship_ , though I certainly championed it more than him. Our mutual silence is so palpable, that when he finally breaks it to speak, I nearly jump out of my skin.

“You need to move,” he just says, and I turn to give him a mildly incredulous look.

“Is that really how you talk to people? I know you're kind of a prat, but I think you can do a bit better than that. I did save your life, after all." He frowns. I mean, his lips already turn down naturally at the corners into a frown, but he frowns _more_. 

“Please, oh please, o honorable one, watch out, because I'm about to stand up, and I don't want to kick you in the face on accident,” he says. “Though now, I'm considering taking back that last sentiment - the more you talk, the more I think you could do with a good kick you in the head.”

“You really know how to show your appreciation,” I say, but still, I scoot out of the way. Baz winces, clumsily moving into a sitting position, and then, with visible effort and an audible grunt, he manages to stand up. As soon as he makes it to his bedroom, I stand up and follow him.

“You know,” I say, placing a hand on his door frame, watching him looking through the books on his shelf, “I really do think that you should be, er, resting. You were really hurt earlier, and - well, you know, sleep is the best medicine.”

“I thought laughter was the best medicine,” Baz says, deadpan and not turning around. I watch him continue searching for whatever book, wishing he would just listen to me for once.

“You don't tend to regularly roar with laughter,” I say. "At least not around me, so I changed the rule. I guess sleep is the second best medicine."

He merely offers a "hmm" in response, still scanning his shelves. Finally, he reaches up, grabs a book, and turns around - from his expression, I can tell just that movement pained him. He carefully perches himself on the edge of his bed, ignoring my presence, and begins flipping through the pages. Refusing to be ignored, I flounce down next to him; the movement causing the bed to shake, and I catch him pulling a face.

“Sorry,” I say, grinning. He just rolls his eyes and continues turning pages, occasionally stopping to read some subheadings. “Are you going to tell me what we're looking for? I think I could probably be of some help, too."

“I'm just looking for some information on that fire salamander,” Baz says, and I look closer at his book. It's full of illustrations of magickal beasts and monsters. “They're incredibly rare creatures, and there's really no reason for them to be in central London, unless...” 

"Unless what?"

He looks at me now; his gray eyes have no hint of mocking and no evil glint to insinuate any sort of lies or plots - his expression is entirely sincere. Finally, he says, "Unless somebody sent it here. There are a few people who have the ability to communicate with certain magickal animals. The question is which one of us was it after? And _why_?"

“Well,” I say, matter-of-factly. “It was probably trying to kill me, since plenty of people and creatures have. Sorry you got in the way.”

“Yeah, probably,” Baz says quietly. After a silence, I realize he's preparing himself to stand up. I notice his concentration and stand first, offering my hands to help. Surprisingly, he accepts, taking my hands and pulling himself to his feet. From the moment our hands connect, I feel the urge to look anywhere except at his face - I rubbed my hands all over his back, yet holding his hands, even for a moment to help him up, feels uncomfortably intimate. We stand in silence for a couple of seconds too long before letting go, and I think he feels the discomfort as well, because he breaks the silence by clearing his throat rather loudly and performatively.

"I'm, er, going to make a cup of tea."

"I'll do it," I say, moving toward the door.

"No, don't," he says quickly, almost shouting. "You made me tea once, and it was quite nearly unbearable. Decidedly not good."

"Ouch. But you need to rest."

"The... _vampire_ thing kind of sucks - no pun intended, so stop laughing - but the main perk is that I don't get sick, and if something does happen, and I get hurt, I heal relatively quickly. I should be fine in a couple of days."

"So tea?" I ask.

I recognize the hint of a smile on his lips. "It's not your fault no one taught you how to make a proper cup. I accept the challenge. Or at least, I'm going to make a cup of tea, and you're going to watch me and learn how it's done."

"That sounds like a plan," I grin. And it was, quite honestly, the best cup of tea I've ever had.


	7. The Lull I Like

After a couple of days, a snail's pace (a Normal's pace) my back is finally healing. We've removed the gauze, but my it's still too sensitive for a shirt - which makes me... uncomfortable, to say the very least. I don't hate my body; I'm relatively in shape, thanks to football, though not aggressively muscular. But Snow and I have never been ones to walk around the flat in various states of undress. Which I am eternally grateful for - I'm not sure I could handle it. All the more embarrassing, however, he refuses to leave me alone; he's at my beck and call. And he keeps making me cups of tea, which isn't the worst thing, now that he can make a decent attempt. 

Now, I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, leaning over my laptop, still attempting to find something - anything - on summoning elemental salamanders. Snow believes that the Humdrum ordered it to the park for him, but I'm not so convinced; surely this dark, "insidious" being could cook up more of a challenge for The Chosen One. But for me, a fire creature, especially one that's immune to traditional magic, is a death sentence, or it would have been without Snow there. Normally, he's the one who wants me dead, but he doesn't seem to want that at the moment, so the only other person I can think of would be Wesley. Wesley, who is still angry about my rescuing Wellbelove, and Wesley, who is angry I refused to join his little vampire squad. So, here I sit, scouring the Internet for some idea of how these creatures are summoned. Folklore wikis are usually somewhat helpful in these situations, but so far, I've found nothing.

“That's because there's nothing to it,” Simon says, sitting at my desk. I've given up hope that Snow will ever leave my room now that he's taken it upon himself to enter freely. He runs his hands through his curls. His hair's actually getting quite long; I think he's just about due for a cut, but that's usually the job of Bunce. (I could do with a haircut myself by now.) “I'm telling you, it was meant for me, and we handled it, and now it's gone.”

“I don't think _we_ did much of anything,” I say, carefully arching my back, which is still tender. Snow looks at his socks. “Unless my gracefully passing out gave your the courage you needed.”

“That's exactly what it did,” he says, meeting my eyes and grinning. “I couldn't have done it without you.”

“Right.” I know he's joking, but I feel vaguely flustered nonetheless. I close my laptop and slide back, so my shoulders are carefully leaning against my headboard, and I trade the computer for the book on my nightstand, which is a book of poetry I haven't read yet.

“What are you reading?” Snow asks, and I hold up the cover in response. Then, to my surprise, he says, "Read it to me.”

“Why? Can’t you read?"

"Of course I can read," he says quickly. ”But I'm not holding the bloody book, am I? I want to know how it goes."

“I'm not reading to you,” I say. I open the book on my lap and look over at him. He's watching me tentatively.

“Yeah, you're right. Of course you're right,” he says, looking... disappointed? He looks down at his feet again, and his eyes look up at me. He offers me a small smile, and I hate him with every fiber of my being. I hate what he does to me. "It's stupid. I'm really behind on my coursework anyway, so, er, I'll see you in a bit." I cannot stand him so much that when he gets up to leave, I scoot over on my bed and pat the space next to me once. I don't have to look at his face to see his stupid grin, but I feel it as he falls onto the bed next to me. Every nerve in my body tenses as we connect, his t-shirt clad side pressed against my bare torso, our legs stretched out before us.

"What's it about?" he asks.

"Well, I haven't read it yet," I say, adjusting myself on the bed, but I can't move any further from him without falling off. "But it's a poem - a long poem, written in free verse - that comes from a larger collection. To my knowledge, it deals with things like the self, and nature, and... and sexuality." At that last word, I glance over at Snow without thinking, and he's looking at me too.

"Yeah?" he says, and he smirks a little. His blue eyes bore into mine, and I can tell I'm holding my breath. "It sounds good."

"Well, it's a classic for a reason," I say coolly, looking back down.

"I haven't read many classics," he admits, laughing a little.

"I'm not surprised."

"Well," and again, I can hear the smile in his voice, "good thing I have you here to enlighten me on what I've been missing out on."

I don't say anything, and we sit in what feels like a heavy silence that's filled with uncertainty, at least on my end. Maybe he's feeling it too.

"Right, well," I unceremoniously clear my throat and begin reading. _“I celebrate myself, and sing myself."_ I'm desperately trying to ignore the very distracting warmth emanating from the mass next to me. _"For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you."_ He shifts in his place, carefully situating himself so his shoulder sits behind mine, and I'm leaning against him to some degree. I can tell he's reading over my shoulder, until he's not anymore, and then I can tell he's watching me, though I'm not sure how I know this. Just a feeling. I pointedly focus on the words, making sure I don't stumble over them. Eventually, he leans his head back against the wall, and I can breathe again (metaphorically - obviously I had to be breathing to read aloud).

After reading for only about fifteen or twenty minutes, Snow leans against me more, and my heart nearly stops completely. His breathing evens out, and I realize the idiot's fast asleep.

I mark my page with a bookmark and gently attempt to prop him back up against the wall before sliding carefully off the bed, leaving the book in my place. I quietly make my exit and move to the living room. Crowley, what the fuck is Snow doing? There's no way he's _flirting_ with me. Absolutely not. He can't be. First of all, he's straight. I think. And he dated Wellbelove - the fair and beautiful Wellbelove. That's clearly his type, even if he were... Well, he's not, and he wasn't flirting. Obviously, he's just that much of an oblivious oaf. And I'm an even more massive idiot for believing, even for a second, that Snow fancying me could even be a possibility.

I realize that I'm pacing, and I force myself to sit down at the table, placing my head in my hands to further indulge in an unhealthy bout of self pity. It was so moronic of me to allow these feelings to take over me. I can't even remember when they started. I truly did despise him once, but it seems so long ago and far away that it was in another world, another lifetime.

I stay in my pity position for far too long. Long enough, at least, for Simon to emerge from my bedroom. I lift my head to take in his image. His hair is flat in places and sticking up in others. He must have let himself get comfortable on my bed after I left - I'll be smelling my pillows later (I'm a freak). His eyes are bleary. And he's wearing a gentle smile. Fuck.

“I owe you dinner,” he says, rubbing his eyes. I check the time on my phone: nearly 7pm.

“You don't owe me anything.”

“I do. You were going to win the football game, until I decided I had to play dirty.” He smiled sheepishly, and I was suddenly grateful for how thirsty I was. I need to hunt, but at least now, my face isn't bright red thinking about that moment Snow had me pinned beneath him in the park. I definitely don't think about him pinning me down like that on my bed. "So how about pasta? It's really one of the only things I can make."

“Maybe we should just get takeaway,” I say. “It's probably the safest option. I don't have to eat whatever concoction you cook up, and you don't have to risk your life in the kitchen; a true win-win." But Snow is scrolling on his phone, and I can see the screen from my seat - he's googling pasta recipes.

“I don't have any of this stuff,” he says.

“That's because you don't cook.”

“Do you have garlic? And tomato purée? And tomatoes? I think I have pasta.”

"For the record, I think this is a terrible idea."

"It's a great idea. I'll be great at this. I'm following a recipe."

"I'll help you,” I sigh, standing up. He looks up from his phone, looking suddenly flustered.

“No, no, I want to do this."

"But _I_ don't want you to do this. You'll burn the flat to the ground."

"I'll allow you in the kitchen on one condition." He points his finger in my face, looking serious. I bat his hand away.

"And what's that, Snow?" 

"You have to call me Simon. Not Snow. I prefer Simon. Friends call me Simon. Is that something you can do?"

"I really don't think I have much of a choice."

With that, his entire fucking face is overtaken by a smile. Urgently, he tells to wait ("don't move - don't even _think_ about moving") before grabbing his keys and hurrying out the door. As soon as the door closes, I move. In my bedroom, I grab the first shirt I can, a rose button down, and wince pulling it on. My back feels less tender, so it should be fine. I change out of my shorts into the first pair of trousers I find. I don't want to cook half-dressed.

I'm just buttoning my top button when Snow bursts through the door again, holding something - clothes? - in his hand, but he freezes upon entrance.

"You changed," he says.

"I did." I roll of the sleeves of my shirt as he watches. His smile falters for a moment (?) - the briefest moment - before politely returning. He tosses me one article, and it's a fucking apron, and it says _"talk wordy to me."_

“Crowley, I am not wearing this,” I sneer (out of habit, mostly), tossing it back. “Where did you even get this?”

"It's Penelope's. She gave me her spare key for emergencies, and this was most definitely an emergency," he says, pulling on the other apron that reads, _"kiss the cook."_ (I'd like to.) "Could you get the back?"

Without saying anything, I go behind him and tie the apron's ribbon so that it fits snugly around his waste. I inhale his smoky scent before he spins around and waggles his eyebrows at me unnecessarily.

"Your turn?" He offers the apron again.

“ _Simon_ ,” I concede, hopelessly, reaching out for the sorry piece of fabric. He smiles reflexively at the sound of his name, and passes me the apron. Rolling my eyes, I put it on and he dances around me to tie it; I hope he doesn't notice my slight shudder at feeling his hands brush against my waist.

“Okay,” he says, and when I turn around, he's hunching over his phone again. "Where do we start?"

I've seen Snow _in_ the kitchen dozens of times - he's made eggs, tea, other simple things any uni student should know how to make - but this time he looks so lost, it's almost adorable - or it would look adorable if it weren't so sad. Maybe he always looks this lost in the kitchen. I take his phone out of his hand, read through the recipe ("This looks simple enough," I mutter), and begin grabbing the ingredients and supplies from various cupboards. Twice, I physically take him by the shoulders and move him out of the way to get into the pantry. I think it's safe to say we've both been a little open with touch since he fixed me up after the park.

“Sorry,” he mutters as he backs up and immediately bumps into the wall.

"And I thought you were the one who was so eager to cook something. You're meant to be the brave hero - what are you doing backed into a corner?”

“Yeah, but - it's just you really seem to know what you're doing,” says Simon, blushing; his eyes have a mildly panicked look to them.

"You're not scared, are you? Of a few tomatoes?"

He laughs, but says, "Just tell me what to do, chef."

“Do the pasta - you can cook pasta, right?"

"I can cook pasta."

"Okay, then cook." I start chopping tomatoes. While we're waiting for the water to boil, I show him to crush and chop garlic. While the pasta's cooking, he heats up a pan and some olive oil to start the sauce, and we begin adding the ingredients. I'm pouring in the chopped tomatoes and the purée, some of the oil splashes out and gets Snow on the arm.

"Fuck! That hurt."

"If you can't take the heat," I say, continuing the stir the mixture and adding in some basil for good measure. I glance over quickly. “Is it bad?”

“No, it's just -,” he says, “I'm not even cooking, and I'm terrible! I'm terrible at standing next to someone cooking.”

"I knew this was a terrible idea.”

"You did not." 

"I did!"

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Oh, I absolutely did say something, you halfwit." As I say this, I gesture at him with my spoon, only to see - in what seems like incredibly slow motion - the red pasta sauce splatter all over Snow's face. The hundreds of freckles that cover his face pale in comparison to the tiny red dots of sauce that make him look like a chicken pox victim. I freeze.

"Who's the halfwit now?" he says, giggling.

"I could get you a mirror, and you'd see that it was still you." But I couldn't help but giggle too.

*

“We did an alright job with this,” he says between shoveling giant fork fulls of spaghetti into his mouth. We're sitting on the floor in the den, by the coffee table. Snow's sitting on one of the couch cushions he pulled down from the couch; I'm just on the floor across from him.

“'We' he says,” I scoff, and he rolls his eyes but smiles, and his mouth is full. It would be disgusting if I didn't find it so attractive.

“You're a pro,” he says. “But you have to admit that this pasta is cooked to perfection.”

“It is." I pointedly take another bite to satisfy him, and he smiles contentedly.

“Oo evah inished reeing me dah pome.”

“Please speak English,” I say. "Or at least French or something, so I can understand you." He swallows his food and drinks some water.

“You never finished reading me that poem,” he repeats clearly, and I sit my plate on the coffee table.

“Well, that's certainly not _my_ fault,” I say, wiping my mouth with a napkin, crumple it up, and drop it on the plate.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry I fell asleep - your reading voice is very... soothing. And it was my nap time.”

“It's fine,” I mumble.

“Will you finish reading it to me?”

"What, now?"

"Why not? It's not like we have anything better to do." 

“I'm not even sure where I left off,” I say, knowing full well where I left off.

“Me neither,” he says. "Start from the beginning."

“Are you serious?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Yeah,” he replies, adjusting on the cushion. “I'd like you to read it.” And he looks at me with those big, unremarkable blue eyes that I love, and I merely nod.

When I return from my bedroom, book in hand, Snow had turned on a lamp and pulled down another cushion from the couch; I sit down on it, next to him. Reading aloud isn't a something that I'm particularly used to; I clear my throat but immediately feel silly about it. Very aware of the fact that Snow is watching me (rather intently, if my feeling is correct), I open the book and start reading.

I'm stopped almost as soon as I begin (I reach the line _"My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,"_ ) by a hand on my head, my neck. Suddenly, the only thing I'm aware of is that I'm kissing Simon Snow.


	8. Closer, Closer, Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter is almost exclusively about kissing - maybe too much kissing??? hope you don't mind, & thank you for reading xx

**Simon**

I don't know exactly why I did it or what moment I decided that I wanted to do it, but I like it. I like kissing Baz; I like the way our lips fall open against each other and how underneath it all, he tastes like woodsy and citrus-y. I like him like this, and I think he likes it too. After a few seconds (probably of surprise) he pushes back against me. I feel his hand lightly tracing the line of my jaw. His lips are cold against mine, but his fingers feel room temperature. My primal urges are encouraging me to shove my tongue down his throat and climb on top of him.

I suppose I've always just assumed I'm straight. I'm not _gay_ , I don't think. But that's the thing, I guess - I've never really _thought_ about it. All I can think about now is how sturdy Baz felt next to me when he was reading earlier; Baz's forearms when he was rolling up his sleeves; Baz letting go and laughing while we were cooking. Right now, my brain only wants more of him; I want to be close to him. Closer to him. I push my hand through his hair.

All of a sudden, Baz pulls away, or pushes me away - way before I want him to. We stare at each other for a moment, and I can see that he's studying my face. I wonder if he can see the disappointment that our faces are no longer touching.

"What are you doing?" he asks, almost defensively.

"Er, kissing you," I say, leaning back in, but he jerks his head back.

"Why?"

"Why did I want to kiss you?"

"Yeah."

"I wanted to."

_"Why?"_

"I don't know," I say, shrugging. and he rolls his eyes. "I just wanted you, I guess. I was looking at you reading that book, and I wanted to kiss you, and I didn't think about it."

Silence. Then Baz says, "I didn't think you were gay."

“Yeah, me neither. I'm still not entirely sure, honestly” I say stupidly, and Baz raises his eyebrows skeptically; I wish I could explain my thoughts better. "I guess I just assumed I was straight, but I wanted to kiss you, and I kissed you, and," I take a breath, "I liked it."

Apprehensively, I inch closer to Baz. He doesn't move, which I think is a good sign; I can't imagine he would have any qualms about spelling me away with **get lost** or even a **fuck off** , considering the circumstances.

“Did you want me to kiss you?” I ask, and Baz looks at me, then away.

“No comment.”

"Well, then I take that as a yes." I reach toward him and take him by the chin, making him look at me. He rolls his eyes again, but this time, it's more good-humoured. I can feel myself smiling, and I drop my hand. "Are you? Gay?"

“Yeah,” he says. “Completely. Very much so.”

"So you do this all the time?"

I think I notice his cheeks go pink, ever-so-slightly. “Not exactly. Though, first year, I would have said yes, probably. I was slightly... heedless.”

“I can’t believe I had no idea. I mean, we live together!"

"Don't feel bad - it's not your fault you barrel through life not paying attention to anything."

“Gee, thanks,” I say, but I laugh, which makes him laugh, and he snorts, which makes both of us laugh harder.

Eventually, just like with the kiss, Baz pulls back before I'm ready. “Well,” he says, "I, er - I'm going out."

"Out?"

"Yeah, I have to... hunt." He looks sheepish. "It's been a while."

“Oh. _Oh._ Sure,” I say, more casually than I feel. I know he has to go; I can't imagine kissing is easy when you need to drink blood, but I don't want to let him go yet. When he stands up, I grab him by the wrist and pull him back down. I feel his lips smiling against mine.

After an indeterminable amount of time, Baz pulls away again. "I really have to go." His voice sounds strained, so I let him get up to grab his jumper. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

On his way out the door, he doesn't look at me until I say, "See you."

"See you," he nods.

As soon as he's gone, the thought spiral begins. I pretend it's not happening for as long as I can, washing the dishes and cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. The dish soap runs out, and it takes me, probably fifteen minutes of opening various cabinets to find a new bottle. But then the kitchen was spotless, the dishes were clean, and everything was put away, and I end up in my bedroom, lying on my unmade bed and letting the thoughts spin and spin. _This_ is why I try not to think about anything complicated.

What about Agatha? I mean, sure, we're not together anymore. And we haven't been together for a while now, but I liked her. I really liked her. I loved her, once, I think. I cared about her so much. She's good, and she's beautiful - any idiot can see that's she's beautiful. And I was definitely attracted to her. That's why I was so jealous over her calling Baz for help instead of me. Or was I jealous of her spending time with Baz? Or both? I mean, if I think about it, Baz isn't exactly _not_ beautiful. I would say I've gotten to know his face pretty well, and, well, he's an attractive guy - it's probably a vampire thing. Like _Twilight_ or something - all the vampires are hot in that, right?

I definitely liked kissing Agatha. I liked doing _lots of things_ with Agatha, and I sure wasn't thinking about Baz, or any other boys, while I was doing them.

But kissing Baz was kissing Baz, and when I think about it, something unravels in my stomach. Something warm; it feels like burning, like his magic. I pull my pillow over my face and remember Baz pinned underneath me at the park; Baz stifling his laughs while we watched TV; Baz's back underneath my palms while I tended to his burns - and the warmth intensifies in my gut.

Alright, so I'm attracted to him. I _really_ liked kissing him, and I, for sure, want to do it again. What does that make me? Gay? Bisexual? Something else I don't know about? Do I have to know right now? Pulling the pillow down, I decide that I don't have to figure it out immediately. Underneath all of these feelings, though, I'm just really happy.

I sit up automatically when I hear the door to the flat unlock and open. I want to leave my room and talk to him (and _not_ talk to him), but I can't help feel that I've ambushed him enough for one evening. I kneel by my door and listen: I hear him putting his keys down and his footsteps coming closer - he pauses for a moment outside of my door; I barely breathe - but he continues on to his room. The sound of a sink running. Not his room, the bathroom.

Falling back on my bed, my fidgeting fingers at my sides betray my nerves. I don't know what to expect tonight, or tomorrow, when we talk next. I'm just thinking that the ball is in Baz's court, so to speak, when there's are two sharp knocks at my door. I nearly fall over my feet (or the mess on my floor) trying to answer quickly. 

Baz is standing there, looking nervous, which is quite the change, considering he usually looks annoyingly composed, especially in uncomfortable situations, of which this is about to become if we continue to stand in silence.

“Hi,” I offer, trying to get him to say anything, do anything.

He nods slightly in acknowledgement of my greeting, then manages to say hi back. Then, “Mind if I come in?”

Nodding, I turn away from him to lead the way. Just when I think _this is it,_ and that he's going to tell me that he's not interested in doing whatever this is, and he's not interested in me, and _actually_ , he feels like I sort of attacked him earlier, he grabs my shoulder, and we're kissing again. He tastes like mint. His hand is still firmly on my shoulder, the other lightly hovering near my waist, and he steps forward, pushing me backwards, toward my bed. My hands end up on the side of his neck, in his hair, as we stumble clumsily. My foot catches on a pile of my clothes and I fall onto my bed, just barely, bringing Baz down with me. 

Both of us giggling, we break apart, but I reach out to put my hand on his cheek.

"You're warm."

“Yeah, well, it's the blood." He clears his throat, and I notice his face is flushed. That must be the blood, too.

I shift my hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, and pull him down on top of me again. All the tired clichés about kissing - time slowing down, fireworks going off, melting into each other - they all apply and more. His elbow's near my head, propping himself up, his knee is between my legs, and his hand is on my hip, playing with the hem of my shirt. I wrap my arm around his waist; it doesn't matter that there's no space between us - I want him closer, still.

He moves his lips away from mine, and I think that he really is the champion of choosing the wrong moments to pull back (just again and again and again), but then he moves them to my jaw and down my neck. I make an involuntary noise that I decide I'll be embarrassed about tomorrow. He returns to my mouth before actually pulling away and sitting up, leaving me breathing very hard, which I'm a little embarrassed about right now.

"What are we doing?" he asks.

"Haven't we been over this?" I say. "We're kissing, remember?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I! We're roommates. Who _don't_ hate each other. And snog on occasion."

"Right, I'm sure this is very normal and healthy."

"I think we've both put ourselves into enough dangerous situations to not be considered normal or healthy." And he smiles.

"That's... not entirely untrue," he yields. We grin at each other.

There's a pause after his concession, and I take his hand in mine, kissing it gently. Baz closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath, which makes me feel slightly less self-conscious of my aforementioned heavy breathing. He leans in, then, and kisses me slowly and softly. Tenderly would be a good word for it. It's the kind of kiss that I feel in my knees and makes me realize that this isn't his first time around the block. Something stirs in my chest - jealously relating to anybody that Baz had ever kissed, probably - that makes me pull him closer, the kisses becoming more urgent. When he pulls at my hips, I oblige so that I'm in his lap, straddling him, my arms resting on his shoulders.

"I think," I gasp, when I come up for air, "you're wearing too many layers." My hands fiddle with the hem of his jumper, and he kisses me fiercely before sitting back and pulling it over his head, leaving him in his pink button down. Through his shirt, I run my hands over his chest and lean forward to resume kissing. His arm returns firmly around my waist, and I throw one arm around his shoulders again, the other stays on his chest. I push my fingers through his shirt buttons - he feels room temperature.

After we run out of breath, Baz and I lay next to each other on the bed, holding hands. Without lifting my head, I look over at him - my sworn enemy, my friend (with benefits?) - and looks back at me. Carefully, he reaches over with his other hand and pushes the hair off my forehead; my eyes fall closed at his touch. His fingers play with my hair a little more, winding in the curls. He kisses a mole I have on my cheek, and I run my finger in a circle on his palm.

“Simon,” he says eventually.

I squeeze his hand in response and open one eye.

“I've wanted to do this for a long time..."

My eyes close again, and I smile because I can't help it.

“I’m going to go to bed,” he says. He raises my hand to his lips, then lets go. It's the worst feeling in the world.

"Don't," I mumble.

"Shh."

I open my eyes in time to see him stand up and stretch his arms above his head - the little bit of skin that peeks out beneath his shirt drives me crazy.

Baz grabs his jumper off the floor and crosses the room, avoiding the mess on the floor like it's a minefield. I follow him to the door and take his hand before he leaves. We look at each other in silence.

“Baz,” I say quietly. He closes his eyes, and I lean into him for one last kiss goodnight.


	9. Mail Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know when you get a death threat in the mail so you just make out about it to feel better?? v casual

Baz

Snow likes to wake up early. Despite literally everything about him - he is messy, disorganized, and occasionally oafish - he is an early riser, and I don't understand it. However, with the clarity that morning often brings, I know that everything that happened yesterday was a fluke and should not continue. The flirting, the kissing, the touching can't go on - it just doesn't make enough logical sense to continue. Plus, I don't know how I feel about the situation; according to him we're "roommates who snog," and... I'm not sure if my heart's up for the unrequited feelings. However, as I'm not sure whether I should confront him about this (about the not continuing, not the feelings) or just pretend nothing occurred, for now, I've decided that, after I use the restroom and brush my teeth (and fortunately, I avoid him during that time), staying in my bedroom is the best option.

So far, I've made my bed (complete with perfect hospital corners, the way Vera taught me before I left for boarding school), gotten dressed (just some black trousers and a green jumper), finished my final paper on magickal phrases from nineteenth-century French literature (particularly those of Baudelaire), and spoke with my father on the phone ("We're all fine; your mother sends her regards."). I also reorganized my bookshelf while watching the first episode of the 1995 BBC _Pride and Prejudice_ miniseries. Colin Firth is just... Colin Firth. I check the time, and after all that, it's still only 10 am; I sigh. 

The water in the bathroom begins running loudly, and I hear the door to the bathroom close. Snow's showering, which means that it's my chance leave to my room. Because he generally takes long showers, I grab a book to read over breakfast - definitely not the Whitman book, which reminds me too much of last night. I make some toast and tea and start reading a Ray Bradbury book that Niall gave me for my birthday in February. My to-be-read is currently so high that I've barely made a dent in it, despite reading whenever I can find the time.

I'm so engrossed in the novel that I don't notice the shower stop, nor the door to the bathroom open. I _do_ notice, however, when Snow walks into the living room, smiling, his bronze hair still dark and damp and his t-shirt sort of sticking to him. For some stupid reason, I feel embarrassed looking at him, fresh out of the shower, which is ludicrous. We've been living together for months now; I've seen him like this before. It's just too much now. Especially with the his nipples _very_ prominent through the shirt in the cool air. I truly don't know what to do, so when he walks toward me, I give him a quick nod and return to my book.

But Snow keeps walking toward me.

“All morning, I thought you were ignoring me,” he says. "Like you were going to pretend nothing happened and go right back to being a prat."

“Clearly not.”

"Clearly." The smile's still in his voice.

He puts his arm on the back of my chair, and my back stiffens ever so slightly. Then he bends down and kisses me on the cheek. I look at him again, and he leans against the table, grinning.

“You don't have to do that,” I say, looking down.

“What are you talking about?” He bends forward to meet my eyes. He's no longer grinning, but there's still a hint of a smile on his lips.

I lean back in the chair, frowning. “Act all... _romantic_ ,” I say.

“Who says I'm acting?" He waggles his eyebrows, and I roll my eyes but can't help but smile a little. The idiot. "Seriously, though, I wanted to do that, so I did. You don't have to be so... in your head about this." He takes my hand in his nonchalantly and runs his thumb over the back.

“Right,” is all I say. He grabs my other hand, and my breath catches slightly in my throat. I don't think he noticed. Thank magic Snow doesn't have a vampire's hearing.

“Well," he says, studying my face. " _Well_ \- "I think I'm going to get the post. We haven't checked it in ages. Unless you've gotten it?"

Taking a page from his book, I simply shrug. Then, "I haven't checked in a while."

"Alright." He drops my hands and stands up straight. "To be continued?"

I smile, despite myself. "Sure, to be continued." So much for last night being a fluke. It's still probably a bad idea, but... I'm glad it wasn't.

I take my book back to my room, where I leave the door open to avoid the unnecessary knocking and answering and saying _"Come in,"_ etc. Propping myself on the side of my bed, one leg dangling off, I hunch over the novel once more. I'm distracted when, just a few minutes later, the front door to the flat unlocks, but I make a point to look nonplussed as Snow walks into my room and drops two envelopes in front of me.

"What are these?" I ask, not picking them up.

Snow pointedly leans over to look, examining them very closely, and then simply says, "Letter, I think." 

Resisting the urge to sneer something snarky in return, I pick up the first one and read my full name scrawled in a scratchy handwriting: _Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch_. As Snow peels off his hoodie, I carefully tear open the envelope and pull out a sheet of paper that reads:

_Baz,_

_I know that I gave you the choice of whether or not you want to join the coven. The offer still stands, and I hope you're interested. We could really use your skills, man. We have a decent amount of friends of other sorts. Not necessarily vampires, but... other outsiders, who are powerful, to say the least. There's no point in staying with the mage folk. It's not like they understand you, anyway. You're different. And outsider. One of us._

_You know what I've just decided? Honestly, I don't really care whether you're interested or not! You're joining, buddy._ _Meet me in Trafalgar Square at 9 pm Tuesday night. If you_ don't _come, I think we can probably have something arranged to make sure you regret it._

_See you then,_

_Wesley_

What the fuck. The date is postmarked well over a week ago. We need to check the post more often. I drop the sit the letter to the side and pick up the next one; I'm only vaguely aware of Snow watching me. This letter is even shorter, and it looks as if it were written hastily and with some... anger behind it.

_Baz, it's a shame that you didn't come to meet. It's even more of a shame that you survived the retribution. Of course, you still have the two options: join or die - seems like an easy choice to me. I think you'll be able to find me if you want to._

_Wes_

I throw the letter down on the bed, and Snow picks them up and reads them; slowly, he sits down on the bed in front of me and gives me a puzzled look.

"Wesley?" he asks. "This is the guy who kidnapped Agatha?"

I nod, then add, "And he still seems pretty upset about me saving her. That's what this is really about, I'm sure."

"What's he talking about, though? Joining a coven?"

Anxiously, I tell him about Wes's invitation. "I left that part out of the story because it's - well, it's insane, obviously. Though now, it doesn't seem like much of an invitation." I gesture vaguely to the letters sitting on the bed next to us.

Snow looks me dead in the eye. "Did you... consider it?"

"Not for more than half a second."

He nods absentmindedly. "Well, nothing's going to happen to you if I can help it." Looking serious, he says, "What are we going to do about this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he said that you could find him. I mean, we'll have to take care of this before he finds someone to send some monster after you again." He picks up his phone and starts typing.

"What are you doing?"

"Texting Penny to call when she can. I think she can help us track him down."

Something swells in my chest, knowing that Snow genuinely wants to be involved in this. Together. To help. But I just say, "I'll manage." He throws his phone to the side and takes my face in his hands. I'm sure he can feel what heat there is in my cheeks.

"I'm not letting anything happen to you." And then his lips brush against mine softly. "We're just getting started."

His lips are soft and warm. I'm not sure how I could have possibly thought this was ever a bad idea when it feels so good - even better than I remember from last night. Tentatively, I put my hand on his cheek, and I realize I'm shivering. It's embarrassing, but Snow only kisses more intensely. I push against him, and he pushes back harder. Suddenly, we're horizontal, and he's on all fours above me; I'm looking into his blue eyes and am reminded of everything I wanted to do to him that day at the park. I let myself give in.

"To think," I breathe, "we could have been doing this the whole time." He grins, and I raise my body off the bed, reaching up for his mouth and putting an arm around his waist, pulling him down on top of me.

Snow does this thing with his chin that makes my knees feel weak, and I wish I could bite him - in the moment, I think that Turning him would be worth it - but I restrain myself. My breath hitches when he pulls back and lightly bites my neck himself, knotting his hands in my hair.

I manage to guide us into a sitting position, and he's on my lap now, straddling me, and his trousers are straining ridiculously over his thighs, which I find _severely_ distracting.

"I want to do this forever," he says. His lips don't leave mine as he speaks. In response, I merely tighten my grip around him. His hands slide down my neck, and I can feel myself flushing. As his hands continue down my back, I move one hand to his hip.

My fingers play with the hem of his t-shirt, and when my fingers graze a bit of skin, he inhales sharply and involuntarily grinds against me. I'm sure he can feel me already getting hard underneath him.

"Fuck," I groan and immediately shift my hand to his thigh, feeling the taut muscles under his trousers, and dig my nails in; he makes a strangled noise in response.

His hands deftly find their way under the back of the my jumper - my brain short circuits entirely. I let go of him, and he pulls the jumper over my head, before throwing it across the room. He collapses on top of me again, his hot palms now splayed against my chest. My hands down trace his outline, then back up underneath his shirt. I move my mouth to his jaw, occasionally rubbing my nose against the smooth skin, feeling completely intoxicated by his smoky scent.

We work to get his shirt off and my hands are all over his chest and his fingers dip into the back of my trousers.

"Simon," I rasp, and he hungrily tries to get even closer, which turns out to be impossible. I can feel his heart beating in his chest, and I'm positive he feels mine too. How did we even get here? How did this thing I didn't dare dream of... actually happen?

Without warning, Simon's phone rings, and we both jump at the interruption, but we let it carry on ringing. He presses his forehead against mine, and we're panting and laughing.

“We should probably - I don't know," I breathe, running my down his cheek. “I don’t know. Relax."

“Yeah,” he sighs, a little bit out of breath. "Yeah." He slides off my lap, and we both lie back on the bed, and, today, I take his hand in mine. I turn my head, and he's smiling at the ceiling like he's trying not to. He pulls my hand up to his mouth and kisses my knuckles softly.

His phone starts ringing again, and we both sit up. We dig around and find the phone on the floor - it must have fallen off the bed. It's Bunce calling, and it's a FaceTime.

“Fuck,” mumbles Simon. “I'm not... ready for this.” I take him in completely now. His lips are a little swollen and his eyes look a little dazed. Not to mention his hair being as messy as it is.

Leaning off the bed, I toss his t-shirt at him. “Where did you toss my jumper?” He just shakes his head, so I grab his hoodie off the floor and pull it on. Quickly, he pulls his own shirt on and answers the call.

"Simon!" Bunce's voice comes through loud over the speaker. "Did I... wake you? You look a little out of it. Where are you, anyway? That's not your room."

"Oh," he says, "it's Baz's room." He tilts the phone so I'm on screen, and I just lift my hand in greeting. I'm sure I look as messy as Simon, and I can see her brain whirring behind her eyes, putting things together. But she decides to let it go. Thank you, Bunce.

"What's... going on?" She asks.

"I'm trying to help Baz with something."

"You're trying to help _Baz_ with something? No offense, Baz."

"None taken."

"Yes," Simon says. "I'm helping Baz with something."

"Okay," she says.

"And we need your help."

"'We?' Since when are you two a 'we'?"

"We're not a 'we,'" says Simon, but, out of view of the camera, he puts his hand on my knee and squeezes gently. I try not to look as bewildered as I feel.

Simon tells her everything I told him. What I said about Agatha's disappearance and about Wes's offer and finding those letters today. Just not what happened after reading the letters.

"So you guys are going to try and track down a vampire?"

"Yes," replies Simon.

"Do you have anything to go off of?"

"Well, in the letter, he said that Baz should be able to find hi-"

"Vampires tend to congregate in seedy, underground locations," I cut in. "It's safe to say he's in London; any big city is an ideal location for hunting - anywhere where people might go missing and it's not the biggest story on the news."

"But if they're seedy and underground, how are we supposed to find them?" asks Simon.

"It might take a few days of looking, but I'll be able to find him," I say confidently.

"But then what?" Bunce asks. "We need to come up with a plan."

"We could just fight him," Simon suggests.

"You always think you can just solve problems with your sword," Bunce says, rolling her eyes. "That's probably the worst idea you've ever had. Imagine slaying a vampire right by dozens, maybe more, of other vampires."

"Then you think of something!"

"Well, I think I might have an idea, but we need to fill Agatha in, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this wasn't even that smutty, but it took so long to write bc i kept getting embarrassed lol. thanks for reading, as always xx


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